“‘Oh, Pen,’ says my wife, closing my mouth in a way which I do not choose further to particularize, ‘that man is the best, the dearest, the kindest creature. I never knew such a good man; you ought to put him into a book. Do you know, sir, that I felt the very greatest desire to give him a kiss when he went away? and that one which you had just now was intended for him?’” “Laura drove to his lodgings, and took him a box, which was held up to him, as he came to open the door to my wife’s knock, by our smiling little boy. He patted the child on his golden head and kissed him. My wife wished he would have done as much for her; but he would not,—though she owned she kissed his hand. He drew it across his eyes and thanked her in a very calm and stately manner.” “On the day when he went away, Laura went up and kissed him with tears in her eyes. ‘You know how long I have been wanting to do it,’ this lady said to her husband.” “She fairly gave way to tears as she spoke; and for me, I longed to kiss the hem of her robe, or anything else she would let me embrace, I was so happy, and so touched by the simple demeanor and affection of the noble young lady.” “Ethel walked slowly up to the humble bed, and sat down on a chair near it. No doubt her heart prayed for him who slept there; she turned round where his black Pensioner’s cloak was hanging on the wall, and lifted up the homely garment and kissed it. The servant looked on, admiring, I should think, her melancholy and her gracious beauty.” * * * * * From Thackeray to Charles Dickens the transition is easy and pleasant. The difficulty, in both cases, is to limit the number of our extracts. These are from “Nicholas Nickleby:” “It was very little that Nicholas knew of the world, but he guessed enough about its ways to think that if he gave Miss La Creevy one little kiss, perhaps she might not be the less kindly disposed towards those he was leaving behind. So he gave her three or four with a kind of jocose gallantry, and Miss La Creevy evinced no greater symptoms of displeasure than declaring, as she adjusted her yellow turban, that she had never heard of such a thing, and couldn’t have believed it possible.” “‘Do you remember the boy that died here?’ “‘I was not here, you know,’ said Nicholas, gently; ‘but what of him?’ “‘Why,’ replied the youth, drawing closer to his questioner’s side, ‘I was with him at night, and when it was all silent he cried no more for friends he wished to come and sit with him, but began to see faces round his bed that came from home; he said they smiled, and talked to him; and he died at last lifting his head to kiss them.’” “‘Oh, uncle, I am _so_ glad to see you!’ said Mrs. Kenwigs, kissing the collector affectionately on both cheeks. ‘So glad!’