oved him that he was anxious and eager. Mr Maguire,
when he had come a wooing, had not done it badly altogether, but
there had not been so much reality as there was about Sam Rubb while
he stood there shaking, and fearing, and hoping.

"Well," said he, "may I hope--may I think it will be so? may I ask
you to be mine?"

He was handsome in her eyes, though perhaps, delicate reader, he
would not have been handsome in yours. She knew that he was not a
gentleman; but what did that matter? Neither was her sister-in-law
Sarah a lady. There was not much in that house in Gower Street that
was after the manner of gentlemen and ladies. She was ready to throw
all that to the dogs, and would have done so but for Mr Maguire. She
felt that she would like to have allowed herself to love him in spite
of the tearing of the verses. She felt this, and was very angry with
Mr Maguire. But the facts were stern, and there was no hope for her.

"Mr Rubb," she said, "there can be nothing of that kind."

"Can't there really, now?" said he.

She assured him in her strongest language, that there could be
nothing of that kind, and then went down to the dining-room.

He did not venture to follow her, but made his way out of the house
without seeing anyone else.

Another fortnight went by, and then, towards the close of September,
came the end of all things in this world for poor Tom Mackenzie. He
died in the middle of the night in his wife's arms, while his sister
stood by holding both their hands. Since the day on which he had
endeavoured to arrange a match between his partner and his sister he
had spoken no word of business, at any rate to the latter, and things
now stood on that footing which she had then attempted to give them.
We all know how silent on such matters are the voices of all in the
bereft household, from the hour of death till that other hour in
which the body is consigned to its kindred dust. Women make mourning,
and men creep about listlessly, but during those few sad days
there may be no talk about money. So it was in Gower Street. The
widow, no doubt, thought much of her bitter state of dependence,
thought something, perhaps, of the chance there might be that her
husband's sister would be less good than her word, now that he was
gone--meditated with what amount of submission she must accept the
generosity of the woman she had always hated; but she was still
mistress of that house till the undertakers had done their work;