y, which would be very uncomfortable.'

'Very little comfort,' echoed Jonathan--'my wife is dead. _In coelo
quies._'

'Well, we must hope for the best; but this suspense is anything but
comfortable,' observed Mr. Witherington, after looking over the contents
of the letter for at least the twentieth time.

'That will do, Jonathan; I'll ring for coffee presently;' and Mr.
Witherington was again alone and with his eyes fixed upon the ceiling.

A cousin of Mr. Witherington, and a very great favourite (for Mr.
Witherington, having a large fortune, and not having anything to do with
business, was courted by his relations), had, to a certain degree,
committed herself; that is to say that, notwithstanding the injunctions
of her parents, she had fallen in love with a young lieutenant in a
marching regiment, whose pedigree was but respectable, and whose fortune
was anything but respectable, consisting merely of a subaltern's pay.
Poor men, unfortunately, always make love better than those who are
rich, because, having less to care about, and not being puffed up with
their own consequence, they are not so selfish, and think much more of
the lady than of themselves. Young ladies, also, who fall in love, never
consider whether there is sufficient 'to make the pot boil'--probably
because young ladies in love lose their appetites, and, not feeling
inclined to eat at that time, they imagine that love will always supply
the want of food. Now, we will appeal to the married ladies whether we
are not right in asserting that, although the collation spread for them
and their friends on the day of the marriage is looked upon with almost
loathing, they do not find their appetites return with interest soon
afterwards. This was precisely the case with Cecilia Witherington, or
rather Cecilia Templemore, for she had changed her name the day before.
It was also the case with her husband, who always had a good appetite,
even during his days of courtship; and the consequence was that the
messman's account, for they lived in barracks, was, in a few weeks,
rather alarming. Cecilia applied to her family, who very kindly sent her
word that she might starve; but, the advice neither suiting her nor her
husband, she then wrote to her cousin Antony, who sent her word that he
would be most happy to receive them at his table, and that they should
take up their abode in Finsbury Square. This was exactly what they
wished; but still there was a certain difficu