ve got no appetite. But, my spirits are up. I begin to
feel myself again. I'll eat by-and-by, my dear. And, I say; I'll tell you
what:--I'll take you to the theatre to-night. I want to laugh. A man's
all right when he's laughing. I wish it was Christmas. Don't you like to
see the old pantaloon tumbled over, my boy?--my girl, I mean. I did, when
I was a boy. My father took me. I went in the pit. I can smell oranges,
when I think of it. I remember, we supped on German sausage; or ham--one
or the other. Those were happy old days!"

He shook his head at them across the misty gulf.

"Perhaps there's a good farce going on now. If so, we'll go. Girls ought
to learn to laugh as well as boys. I'll ring for Braintop."

He rang the bell, and bade Emilia be careful to remind him that he wanted
Braintop's address; for Braintop was useful.

It appeared that there were farces at several of the theatres. Braintop
rattled them out, their plot and fun and the merits of the actors, with
delightful volubility, as one whose happy subject had been finally
discovered. He was forthwith commissioned to start immediately and take a
stage-box at one of the places of entertainment, where two great rivals
of the Doctor genus promised to laugh dull care out of the spirit of man
triumphantly, and at the description of whose drolleries any one with
faith might be half cured. The youth gave his address on paper to Emilia.

"Make haste, sir," said Mr. Pole. "And, stop. You shall go, yourself; go
to the pit, and have a supper, and I'll pay for it. When you've ordered
the box--do you know the Bedford Hotel? Go there, and see Mrs. Chickley,
and tell her I am coming to dine and sleep, and shall bring one of my
daughters. Dinner, sittingroom, and two bed-rooms, mind. And tell Mrs.
Chickley we've got no carpet-bag, and must come upon her wardrobe. All
clear to you? Dinner at half-past five going to theatre."

Braintop bowed comprehendingly.

"Now, that fellow goes off chirping," said Mr. Pole to Emilia. "It's just
the thing I used to wish to happen to me, when I was his age--my master
to call me in and say "There! go and be jolly." I dare say the rascal'll
order a champagne supper. Poor young chap! let his heart be merry. Ha!
ha! heigho!--Too much business is bad for man and boy. I feel better
already, if it weren't for my legs. My feet are so cold. Don't you think
I'm pretty talkative, my dear?"

"I am glad to hear you talk," said Emilia, striving to