When A. came in, the mother and daughter stopped all of a sudding. There had been one or two tiffs before between them, and they feared him as if he had been a hogre. “What's this infernal screeching and crying about?” says he. “Oh, Mr. Altamont,” cries the old woman, “you know too well; it's about you that this darling child is misrabble!” “And why about me, pray, madam?” “Why, sir, dare you ask why? Because you deceive her, sir; because you are a false, cowardly traitor, sir; because YOU HAVE A WIFE ELSEWHERE, SIR!” And the old lady and Miss Betsy began to roar again as loud as ever. Altamont pawsed for a minnit, and then flung the door wide open; nex he seized Miss Betsy as if his hand were a vice, and he world her out of the room; then up he goes to Mrs. S. “Get up,” says he, thundering loud, “you lazy, trolloping, mischsef-making, lying old fool! Get up, and get out of this house. You have been the cuss and bain of my happyniss since you entered it. With your d----d lies, and novvle rending, and histerrix, you have perwerted Mary, and made her almost as mad as yourself.” “My child! my child!” shriex out Mrs. Shum, and clings round missis. But Altamont ran between them, and griping the old lady by her arm, dragged her to the door. “Follow your daughter, ma'm,” says he, and down she went. “CHAWLS, SEE THOSE LADIES TO THE DOOR,” he hollows out, “and never let them pass it again.” We walked down together, and off they went: and master locked and double-locked the bedroom door after him, intendin, of course, to have a tator-tator (as they say) with his wife. You may be sure that I followed up stairs again pretty quick, to hear the result of their confidence. As they say at St. Stevenses, it was rayther a stormy debate. “Mary,” says master, “you're no longer the merry greatful gal I knew and loved at Pentonwill: there's some secret a pressin on you--there's no smilin welcom for me now, as there used formly to be! Your mother and sister-in-law have perwerted you, Mary: and that's why I've drove them from this house, which they shall not re-enter in my life.” “O, Frederic! it's YOU is the cause, and not I. Why do you have any mistry from me? Where do you spend your days? Why did you leave me, even on the day of your marridge, for eight hours, and continue to do so every day?” “Because,” says he, “I makes my livelihood by it. I leave you, and don't tell you HOW I make it: for it would make you none the happier to know.” It was in this way the convysation ren on--more tears and questions on my missises part, more sturmness and silence on my master's: it ended for the first time since their marridge, in a reglar quarrel. Wery difrent, I can tell you, from all the hammerous billing and kewing which had proceeded their nupshuls.