d
(as indeed it did me too) of the terrible story of a bed in a French
gambling-house, which he once heard from a gentleman whose likeness he
took.

"You're laughing at me," says honest Foul-weather Dick, seeing William
turn toward me and smile.--"No, indeed," says my husband; "that last
objection of yours to the four-post beds on shore seems by no means
ridiculous to _me,_ at any rate. I once knew a gentleman, Dick, who
practically realized your objection."

"Excuse me, sir," says Dick, after a pause, and with an appearance
of great bewilderment and curiosity; "but could you put 'practically
realized' into plain English, so that a poor man like me might have a
chance of understanding you?"--"Certainly!" says my husband, laughing.
"I mean that I once knew a gentleman who actually saw and felt what you
say in jest you are afraid of seeing and feeling whenever you sleep in a
four-post bed. Do you understand that?" Foul-weather Dick understood it
perfectly, and begged with great eagerness to hear what the gentleman's
adventure really was. The dame, who had been listening to our talk,
backed her son's petition; the two girls sat down expectant at the
half-cleared tea-table; even the farmer and his drowsy sons roused
themselves lazily on the settle--my husband saw that he stood fairly
committed to the relation of the story, so he told it without more ado.

I have often heard him relate that strange adventure (William is the
best teller of a story I ever met with) to friends of all ranks in many
different parts of England, and I never yet knew it fail of producing an
effect. The farmhouse audience were, I may almost say, petrified by it.
I never before saw people look so long in the same direction, and sit
so long in the same attitude, as they did. Even the servants stole away
from their work in the kitchen, and, unrebuked by master or mistress,
stood quite spell-bound in the doorway to listen. Observing all this in
silence, while my husband was going on with his narrative, the thought
suddenly flashed across me, "Why should William not get a wider audience
for that story, as well as for others which he has heard from time
to time from his sitters, and which he has hitherto only repeated in
private among a few friends? People tell stories in books and get money
for them. What if we told our stories in a book? and what if the book
sold? Why freedom, surely, from the one great anxiety that is now
preying on us! Money enough