Paul coughed, and drew himself up proudly, and, as if a sudden thought occurred to him that he resembled the oak of the forest, he planted his feet firmly, and stood stiff and erect. “You are not half careful enough about yourself, Mr. Dempsey,--never attend to changing your damp clothes,--and I assure you the climate here requires it; and when you come in cold and wet, you should always step in here, on your way upstairs, and take a little something warm and cordial. I don't know if you approve of this,” suiting the action to the words. Mrs. Fum had opened a small cupboard in the wall, and taken out a quaint-looking flask, and a very diminutive glass. “Nectar, by Jove,--downright nectar!” “Made with some white currants and ginger,” chimed in Mrs. Fum, simply, as if to imply, “See what skill can effect; behold the magic power of intelligence!” “White currants and ginger!” echoed Paul, holding out the glass to be refilled. “A trifle of spirits, of course.” “Of course! could n't be comforting without it.” “That's what poor dear Fumbally always called, 'Ye know, ye know!' It was his droll way of saying 'Noyau!'” Here Mrs. F. displayed a conflict of smiles and tears, a perfect April landscape on her features. “He had such spirits!” “I don't wonder, if he primed himself with this often,” said Dempsey, who at last relinquished his glass, but with evident unwillingness. [Illustration: 266] “He used to say that his was a happy home!” sobbed Mrs. Fum, while she pressed her handkerchief to her face. Paul did not well know what he should say, or if, indeed, he was called upon to utter a sentiment at all; but he thought he could have drunk another glass to the late Fum's memory, if his widow had n't kept such a tight grip of the flask. “Oh, Mr. Dempsey, who could have thought it would come to this?” The sorrowful drooping of her eyelids, as she spoke, seemed to intimate an allusion to the low state of the decanter, and Dempsey at once replied,-- “There's a very honest glass in it still.” “Kind--kind creature!” sobbed Mrs. Fum, as she poured out the last of the liquor. And Paul was sorely puzzled, whether the encomium applied to the defunct or himself. “Do you know, Mr. Dempsey,” here she gave a kind of hysterical giggle, that might take any turn,--hilarious, or the reverse, as events should dictate,--“do you know that as I see you there, standing before the fire, looking so pleasant and cheerful, so much at home, as a body might say, I can't help fancying a great resemblance between you and my poor dear Fum. He was older than you,” said she, rapidly, as a slight cloud passed over Paul's features;-“older and stouter, but he had the same jocose smile, the same merry voice, and even that little fidgety habit with the hands. I know you 'll forgive me,--even that was his.” This was in all probability strictly correct, inasmuch as for several years before his demise the gifted individual had labored under a perpetual “delirium tremens.”