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coming down-stairs fast, and will be below the basement very soon.”

Looking by turns at Tugby and his wife, he sounded the barrel with his knuckles for the depth of beer, and having found it, played a tune upon the empty part.

“The back-attic, Mr. Tugby,” said the gentleman: Tugby having stood in silent consternation for some time: “is Going.”

“Then,” said Tugby, turning to his wife, “he must Go, you know, before he’s Gone.”

“I don’t think you can move him,” said the gentleman, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t take the responsibility of saying it could be done, myself You had better leave him where he is. He can’t live long.”

“It’s the only subject,” said Tugby, bringing the butter­ scale down upon the counter with a crash, by weighing his fist on it,“that we’ve ever had a word upon; she and me; and look what it comes to! He’s going to die here, after all. Going to die upon the premises. Going to die in our house!”

“And where should he have died,Tugby?” cried his wife. “In the workhouse,” he returned. “What are workhouses made for?”

“Not for that,” said Mrs. Tugby, with great energy. “Not for that! Neither did I marry you for that. Don’t think it, Tugby. I won’t have it. I won’t allow it. I’d be separated first, and never see your face again. When my widow’s name stood over that door, as it did for many years: this house being