Well, as I was saying, I went by myself round to dear, dear mother’s, (who, whatever her faults may be, still I must say has always been a good mother to me,) and after we had had a nice long cry together, and both of us agreed that it was all owing to Mr. Sk--n--st--n’s continually trying, all he could, to set me against my own dear parents, as he was, we kissed each other and made friends again; for, as my darling mother very truly said, I had always been her own dear, good girl, and, she would add, whatever might come of it, (though, far be it from her to make words between man and wife,) that I was a _great_ deal too good for that sour, good-for-nothing husband of mine, who, she couldn’t help saying, was no gentleman. Then the dear, foolish old soul _would_ make me step into the beautiful little back parlour and take a mouthful of luncheon. And then, I declare, she _must_ go having up, expressly for me, the beautiful cold, baked rice-pudding that she’d had for dinner only the day before, and which, if it is well browned, and has got plenty of custard, and a stick or two of cinnamon in it, is to my mind as nice a thing as one can put one’s lips to. Nor, was this all. Really she seemed as if she couldn’t make enough of me, for, do what I would, I could not prevent the affectionate silly from opening a fresh bottle of her lovely, best green-ginger wine on the joyful occasion, for the more I told her that I dare not touch a drop of it for the life of me, the more determined she seemed to be to open it. Oh! upon my word, I don’t think I ever passed such a pleasant afternoon as that was. I declare, as I sat there, looking out of that lovely little window, and seeing that superb Regent’s Canal winding along like a live eel, with father’s majestic barge dancing on its surface, and his gallant heaver fast asleep in the stern, while here and there a child of charity might be seen fishing on the banks, it seemed to me as if, with a slight stretch of the imagination, you might have fancied yourself to have been far away in beautiful Venice, and the swarthy bargeman the sun-burnt gondolier of that romantic clime, while with a little extra play of fancy one might easily have twisted the charity boys seeking the finny tribe into the yellow-legged kingfishers, which I have heard papa’s old friend, Mr. Glasscock, (who keeps a large Italian warehouse in the neighbourhood, and consequently ought to know something about the country,) over and over again say, delight to haunt the Venetian shores.