One day, after a close examination into his books (and it was a very beautiful day, but there had been wet weather for some time before, and the roads were bad and disagreeable to walk upon), he returned home with the determination of saying unto his wife—“Harriet, it is impossible for me to stand the course of extravagance we are now pursuing. I shall be very happy to entertain your friends occasionally; but really this treating of them every week, I might almost say every day, is too much for any man in business to stand. Look at my profits and expenditure during the last three years.” And he had a statement drawn out. But, as I have said, this was only a speech which he intended to deliver in the presence of his wife. Scarce had he sat down in the parlour where she was, until he perceived, from her looks and manner, that there was a coming storm; and he knew that the address which he had prepared would be ill-timed. He therefore sat in silence; but she did not long follow his example. “Kerr,” said she, “I don’t know whether you mean to kill me, or what you mean to do; but I am kept here, mewed up like a prisoner.” “Me keep you mewed up, dear!” said he; “ye certainly know that ye have full scope and liberty to do as ye please—ye are mistress of your own actions.” “Me mistress of my own actions!” exclaimed she; “me go where I please!—what do ye mean? _How_ can I go any where? Would you have me to go wading through the mire to visit any respectable person?” “Certainly not, my dear!” said he; “but ye can take a fine day for your visits, when it is dry under foot.” “O you brute!” exclaimed the delicate Mrs Kerr, “when shall I teach you to know anything? When shall I get your ideas carried beyond your counter? Is it not disgraceful to see you trudge, trudging into the town every day, like some poor beggar that had to work for his bread?” “Beggars dinna work, hinny,” said he—“but do not be in a passion.” “Passion!” cried she; “I tell you what, Kerr—if you continue to disgrace me as you have done, I shall never set my foot upon the outside of your threshold again. Why don’t you get a carriage?” “A carriage!” he exclaimed, as though a thunderbolt had startled him in its flight. “Yes! a carriage,” she resumed—“I ask you, why don’t you get one? Don’t tell me you can’t afford it. I know better.” “I cannot tell what ye know, love,” said Mr Kerr; “but a carriage is out of the question.” “It is not out of the question,” she resumed; “and question or no question, you must have one. Do you suppose I am to be kept here like a nun all my life?” More conversation of a similar character passed between them; but it ended in this, that within two months Walter Kerr had a coachman, a carriage, and a pair of horses.