"And if I can manage it, you shall be a dutiful friend and brother-in-law too, my boy," muttered Pratt, as he sank back in his seat, relit his pipe, and smoked in peace. Plymouth platform was in a state of bustle on the arrival of the train. The friends had alighted from their coupe, inquired about the early morning train for Penzance, pointed out their light luggage toon obsequious porter, whose words buzzed with z's, and were about to make their way to the great hotel, when Pratt's attention was taken by a little grey, voluble old woman, very neatly and primly dressed in blue print, with a scarlet shawl, and a wonderful sugar-loaf beaver hat upon her head. She was in trouble about her railway ticket, two bundles tied up in blue handkerchiefs, and a large, green umbrella. "I can't find it, young man; I teclare to cootness, look you, I can't find it." "Very sorry, ma'am," said the ticket collector, who had followed her from the regular platform; "then you'll have to pay from Bristol." "Put look you," cried the old lady, "I tid pay once and cot the ticket, look you, and I put it somewhere to pe safe." "Have you searched all your pockets?" said Richard. "Yes, young man," said the old lady; "I've only cot one, look you-- there!" and she dragged up her dress to display a great olive green pocket as big as a saddle-bag, out of which, after placing a bundle in Pratt's hands and the umbrella in Richard's to hold, she turned out a heterogeneous assortment of nutmegs, thimbles, reels of cotton, pieces of wax-candle, ginger, a bodkin case, pincushions, housewives, and, as the auctioneers say, other articles too numerous to mention. "It don't seem to be there," said Richard, kindly. "No, young man, it isn't. I hunted it all over, look you, and I must have peen robbed." "Well, ma'am, I'm very sorry," said the collector, "but you must pay again." "I teclare to cootness, young man, I can't, and I won't. I shall have no money to come pack." "Can't help that," said the collector, civilly enough. "I must do my duty, ma'am." "How much is it?" said Richard. "From Bristol, third-class, sir, eight and tenpence." "Look you, young man, I shall pe ruined," cried the old woman, tearfully. "I'll pay it," said Richard, thrusting his hand into his pocket. "You're a tear, coot poy, pless you," cried the old lady; and to the amusement of all on the platform, she went on tiptoe, reached up to Richard, and gave him a sounding kiss. "Pless you for it. Coot teeds are never thrown away." "I hope you are a witch, Mother Hubbard," said Pratt, laughing. "Here's your bundle. Don't forget to do him a good turn." Richard took out the money, and the collector was about to write a receipt, when it suddenly occurred to the young man to open the umbrella, which he did with some difficulty, and the missing ticket fell out.