SALLY was beginning to conceive a great fear of her guest, and terror being the chief spring of activity, in a marvellously short time the coffee was made, and she, with Lucy Maria holding the candle behind her, knocking at what they called the drawing-room door. When, in obedience to his command, she entered, he was standing by the chimney-piece, gazing at her through an atmosphere almost hazy with tobacco smoke. He had got on his dressing-gown, which was pea-green, and a scarlet fez, and stood with his inquisitive smile and scowl, and his long pipe a little removed from his lips.

“Oh, it’s you? yes; no one — do you mind — except Mr. Larkin, or Mr. Levi, or Mr. Goldshed, ever comes in to me — always charmed to see you, and them— but there ends my public; so, my dear lady, if any person should ask to see Mr. Dingwell, from New York in America, you’ll simply say there’s no such person here — yes — there’s —no— such—person—here— upon my honour. And you’re no true woman if you don’t say so with pleasure — because it’s a fib.”

Sarah Rumble courtesied affirmatively.

“I forgot to give you this note — my letter of introduction. Here, ma’am, take it, and read it, if you can. It comes from those eminent harpies, the Messrs. Goldshed and Levi — your landlords, aren’t they?”

Another courtesy from grave, dark-browed Miss Rumble acknowledged the fact.

“It is pleasant to be accredited by such gentlemen — good landlords, I dare say?”

“I’ve nothing to say against Mr. Levi; and I’m ‘appy to say, sir, my rent’s bin always paid up punctual,” she said.

“Yes, just so — capital landlord! charming tenant; and I suspect if you didn’t, they’d find a way to make you — eh? Your coffee’s not so bad — you may make it next time just a degree stronger, bitter as wormwood and verjuice, please — black and bitter, ma’am, as English prejudice. It isn’t badly made, however — no, it is really good. It isn’t a common Christian virtue, making good coffee — the Mahometans have a knack of it, and you must be a bit of a genius, ma’am, for I think you’ll make it very respectably by tomorrow evening, or at latest, by next year. You shall do everything well for me, madam. The Dingwells are always d — d flighty, wicked, unreasonable people, ma’am, and you’ll find me a regular Dingwell, and worse, madam. Look at me — don’t I look like a vampire. I tell you, ma’am, I’ve been buried, and they would not let me rest in my grave, and they’ve called me up by their infernal incantations, and here I am, ma’am, an evoked spirit. I have not read that bit of paper. How do they introduce me — as Mr. Dingwell, or Mr. Dingwell’s ghost? I’m wound up in a sort of way; but I’m deficient in blood, ma’am, and in heat. You’ll have to keep the fire up always like this, Mrs. Rumble. You’d better mind, or you’ll have me a bit too like a corpse to be pleasant. Egad! I frighten myself in the glass, ma’am. There is what they call transfusion of blood now, ma’am, and a very sensible thing it is. Pray, don’t you think so?”

“I do suppose what you say’s correct, sir.”

“When a fellow comes out of the grave, ma’am-that’s sherry in that bottle; be kind enough to fill this glass — he’s chilly, and he wants blood, Mrs. Rumble. A gallon, or so, transfused into my veins wouldn’t hurt me. You can’t make blood fast enough for the wear and tear of life, especially in a place like merry England, as the poets call it — and merry England is as damp all over as one of your charnel vaults under your dirty churches. Egad! it’s enough to make a poor ghost like me turn vampire, and drain those rosy little brats of yours — ha, ha, ha! —your children, are they, Mrs. Rumble — eh?”

“No, sir, please — my brother’s children.”

“Your brother’s— ho! He doesn’t live here, I hope?”

“He’s dead, sir.”

“Dead — is he?”

“Five years last May, sir.”

“Oh! that’s good. And their mother? — some more sherry, please.”

“Dead about four years, poor thing! They’re orphans, sir, please.”

“‘Gad! I do please; it’s a capital arrangement, ma’am, as they are here, and you mustn’t let ’em go among the children that swarm about places like this. Egad! ma’am, I’ve no fancy for scarlatina or small-pox, or any sort or description of your nursery maladies.”

“They’re very ‘ealthy, sir, I thank you,” said grave Sarah Rumble, a little mistaking Mr. Dingwell’s drift.

“Very glad to hear it, ma’am.”

“Very kind o’ you, sir,” she said, with a courtesy.

“Kind, of course, yes, very kind,” he echoed.

“Very ‘ealthy, indeed, sir, I’m thankful to say.”

“Well, yes, they do look well — for town brats, you know — plump and rosy — hang ’em, little skins of sweet red wine; egad! enough to make a fellow turn vampire, as I said. Give me a little more sherry — thank you, ma’am. Any place near here where they sell ice?”

“Yes, sir, there’s Mr. Candy’s hice-store, in Love Lane, sir.”

“You must arrange to get me a pound, or so, every day at twelve o’clock, broken up in lumps, like sugar, and keep it in a cold cellar; do you mind, ma’am?”

“Yes, sir, please.”

“How old are you, ma’am? Well, no, you need not mind — hardly a fair question; a steady woman — a lady who has seen the world —something of it, hey?” said he; “so have I— I’m a steady old fellow, egad! — you must give me a latch-key, ma’am.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Some ten or twelve years will see us out; curious thing life, ma’am, eh? ha, ha, ha! — Sparkling cup, ma’am, while it lasts —sometimes; pity the flask has so few glasses, and is flat so soon; isn’t it so, ma’am?”

“I never drank wine, sir, but once.”

“No! where was that?”

“At Mr. Snelly’s wedding, twenty years since.”

&............