a fiend Do let you rest? No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long: it's very hard if I can't speak a word at night; and it isn't often I open my mouth, goodness knows!

Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must almost swear the roof off the house. You didn't swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know what you do when you're in a passion. You were not in a passion, wern't you? Well, then I don't know what a passion is; and I think I ought to by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that.

It's a pity you haven't something worse to complain of than a button off your shirt. If you'd some wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm never without a needle-and-thread in my hand; what with you and the children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks? Why, if once in your life a button's off your shirt-what do you say "ah" at? I say once, Mr. Caudle; or twice or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are better looked after than yours. I only wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married! I should like to know where were your buttons then?

Yes, it is worth talking of! But that's how you always try to put me down. You fly into a rage, and then, if I only try to speak, you won't hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to yourselves: a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in. A nice notion you have of a wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of but her husband's buttons. A pretty notion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha! if poor women only knew what they had to go through! What with buttons, and one thing and another! They'd never tie themselves to the best man in the world, I'm sure. What would they do, Mr.

Caudle? Why, do much better without you, I'm certain.

And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt; it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something to talk about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, for anything! All I know is, it's very odd button the button should be off my shirt; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husbands buttons than I am. I only say it's very odd.

However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. I'm worn to death with your temper, and shan't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may laugh! And I dare say you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's your love; that's your feeling! I know that I'm sinking every day, though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second wife will look after your buttons! You'll find out the difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, then; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back.

I'M

THIN SHOES

(From "The Last Curtain Lecture")

I'M not going to contradict you, Caudle; you may say what you like; but I think I ought to know my own feelings better than you. I don't wish to upbraid you, neither; I'm too ill for that; but it's not getting wet in thin shoes-oh, no! It's my mind, Caudle, my mind, that's killing me. Gruel! Oh, yes, gruel, indeed—you think gruel will cure a woman of anything; and you know, too, how I hate it. Gruel can't reach what I suffer; but, of course, nobody is ever ill but yourself. Well, I—I didn't mean to say that; but when you talk in that way about thin shoes, a woman says,

of course, what she doesn't mean; she can't help it. You are always going on about my shoes; when I think I'm the fittest judge of what becomes me best. I dare say 'twould be all the same to you if I put on ploughman's boots; but I am not going to make a figure of my feet, I can tell you. I've never got cold with the shoes I've worn yet, and 'tisn't likely I should begin now.

No, Caudle; I wouldn't wish to say anything to accuse you; no, goodness knows I wouldn't make you uncomfortable for the world-but the cold I got ten years ago. I have never said anything about it but it has never left me. Yes; ten years ago, the day before yesterday. How can I recollect it? Oh, very well; women remember things you never think of, poor souls! they've good cause to do so. Ten years ago I was sitting up for you-there now, I'm not going to say anything to vex you, only do let me speak-ten years ago I was sitting up for you, and I fell asleep, and the fire went out, and when I awoke I found I was sitting right in the draught of the key-hole. That was may death, Caudle; though don't let that make you uneasy, love, for I don't think you meant to do it.

Ha! it's very well for you to call it nonsense; and to lay your ill-conduct on my shoes. That's like a man exactly. There never was a man yet that killed his wife who couldn't give a good reason for it. No; I don't mean to say that you've killed me; quite the reverse; still, there's never been a day that I haven't felt that key-hole. What! Why won't I have a doctor! What's the use of a doctor? Why should I put you to expense? Besides, I dare say you'll do very well without me, Caudle: yes, after a very little time, you won't miss me muchno man ever does.

Peggy tells me Miss Prettyman called to-day. What of it? Nothing, of course. Yes: I know she

heard I was ill, and that's why she came. A little indecent, I think, Mr. Caudle; she might wait, I sha'n't be in her way long; she may soon have the key of the caddy, now.

Ha, Mr. Caudle, what's the use of your calling me your dearest soul, now? Well, I do believe you. I dare say you do mean it: that is, I hope you do. Nevertheless, you can't expect I can lie quiet in this bed and think of that young woman--not, indeed, that she's near so young as she gives herself out. I bear no malice toward her, Caudle-not the least. Still, I don't think I could lie at peace in my grave if-well, I won't say anything more about her; but you know what I mean.

I think dear mother would keep house beautifully for you when I am gone. Well, love, I won't talk in that way, if you desire it. Still I know I've a dreadful cold; though I won't allow it for a minute to be the shoes-certainly not. I never would wear 'em thick, and you know it, and they never gave me cold yet. No, dearest Caudle, it's ten years ago that I did it; not that I'll say a syllable of the matter to hurt you. I'd die first.

Mother, you see, knows all your little ways; and you wouldn't get another wife to study you and pet you up as I've done-a second wife never does; it isn't likely she should. And after all, we've been very happy. It hasn't been my fault if we've had a word or two, for you couldn't help now and then being aggravating; nobody can help their tempers always-especially men. Still, we've been very happy-haven't we, Caudle?

Good-night. Yes, this cold does tear me to pieces; but, for all that, it isn't the shoes. God bless you, Caudle. No-it is not the shoes. I won't say it's the key-hole; but again I say, it's not the shoes. God bless you, once more-but never say it's the shoes.

MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT THE
FAMILY UMBRELLA

THAT'S the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What were you to do? Why let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could spoil. Take cold, indeed! He doesn't look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd have better taken cold than take our only umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear the rain? And as I'm alive, if it isn't St. Swithin's day! Do you hear it against the windows? Nonsense; you don't impose upon me. You can't be asleep with such a shower as that! Do you hear it, I say? Oh, you do hear it! Well, that's a pretty flood, I think, to last for six weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the house. Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don't insult me. He return the umbrella! Anybody would think you were born yesterday. As if anybody ever did return an umbrella! There do you hear it? Worse and worse? Cats and dogs, and for six weeks-always six weeks. And no umbrella!

"I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow? They sha'n't go through such weather, I'm determined. No: they shall stop at home and never learn anything-the blessed creatures!-sooner than go and get wet. And when they grow up, I wonder who they'll have to thank for knowing nothing-who, indeed, but their father? People who can't feel for their own children ought never to be fathers.

"But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes: I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow-you knew that; and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate me to