I go back for the lagging sheep.

CHAPTER VIII.

JAMES TRIPLET, water in his eye, but fire in his heart, went home on
wings. Arrived there, he anticipated curiosity by informing all hands he
should answer no questions. Only in the intervals of a work, which was
to take the family out of all its troubles, he should gradually unfold
a tale, verging on the marvelous--a tale whose only fault was, that
fiction, by which alone the family could hope to be great, paled beside
it. He then seized some sheets of paper fished out some old dramatic
sketches, and a list of _dramatis personae,_ prepared years ago, and
plunged into a comedy. As he wrote, true to his promise, he painted,
Triplet-wise, that story which we have coldly related, and made it
appear, to all but Mrs. Triplet, that he was under the tutela, or
express protection of Mrs. Woffington, who would push his fortunes until
the only difficulty would be to keep arrogance out of the family heart.

Mrs. Triplet groaned aloud. "You have brought the picture home, I see,"
said she.

"Of course I have. She is going to give me a sitting."

"At what hour, of what day?" said Mrs. Triplet, with a world of meaning.

"She did not say," replied Triplet, avoiding his wife's eye.

"I know she did not," was the answer. "I would rather you had brought me
the ten shillings than this fine story," said she.

"Wife!" said Triplet, "don't put me into a frame of mind in which
successful comedies are not written." He scribbled away; but his wife's
despondency told upon the man of disappointments. Then he stuck fast;
then he became fidgety.

"Do keep those children quiet!" said the father.

"Hush, my dears," said the mother; "let your father write. Comedy seems
to give you more trouble than tragedy, James," added she, soothingly.

"Yes," was his answer. "Sorrow comes somehow more natural to me; but for
all that I have got a bright thought, Mrs. Triplet. Listen, all of you.
You see, Jane, they are all at a sumptuous banquet, all the _dramatis
personae,_ except the poet."

Triplet went on writing, and reading his work out: "Music, sparkling
wine, massive plate, rose-water in the hand-glasses, soup, fish--shall
I have three sorts of fish? I will; they are cheap in this market. Ah!
Fortune, you wretch, here at least I am your master, and I'll make you
know it--venison," wrote Triplet, with a malicious grin, "game, pickles
and provocatives in the center of the table; then up jumps one