that the addition of a nephew must make
such a loss still heavier.

Mr. BUMSTEAD being in his room when the introduction took place, and
having Judge SWEENEY for company over a bowl of lemon tea, the new
boarder lifted his hat politely to both dignitaries, and involuntarily
smacked his lips at the mixture they were taking for their coughs.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," said Mr. TRACEY CLEWS, in a manner almost
stealthy; "but, as I am about to take summer board with the lady of this
house, I beg leave to inquire if she and the man she married are
strictly moral except in having cold dinner on Sunday?"

Mr. BUMSTEAD, who sat very limply in his chair, said that she was a very
good woman, a very good woman, and would spare no pains to secure the
comfort of such a head of hair as he then saw before him.

"This is my dear friend, Judge SWEENEY," continued the Ritualistic
organist, languidly waving a spoon towards that gentleman, "who has a
very good wife in the grave, and knows much more about women and gravy
than I. As for me," exclaimed Mr. BUMSTEAD, suddenly climbing upon the
arm of his chair and staring at Mr. CLEW'S head rather wildly, "my only
bride was of black alpaca, with a brass ferrule, and I can never care
for the sex again." Here Mr. BUMSTEAD, whose eyes had been rolling in an
extraordinary manner, tumbled into his chair again, and then, frowning
intensely, helped himself to lemon tea.

"I am referred to your Honor for further particulars," observed Mr.
TRACEY CLEWS, bowing again to Judge SWEENEY. "Not to wound our friend
further by discussion of the fair sex, may I ask if Bumsteadville
contains many objects of interest for a stranger, like myself?"

"One, at least, sir," answered the Judge. "I think I could show you a
tombstone which you would find very good reading. An epitaph upon my
late better-half. If you are a married man you can not help enjoying
it."

Mr. CLEWS regretted to inform his Honor, that he had never been a
married man, and, therefore, could not presume to fancy what the
literary enjoyment of a widower must be at such a treat.

"A journalist, I presume?" insinuated Judge SWEENEY, more and more
struck by the other's perfect pageant of incomprehensible hair and
beard.

"His Honor flatters me too much."

"Something in the lunatic line, then, perhaps?"

"I have told your Honor that I never was married."

Since last speaking, Mr. BUMSTEAD had been staring at the new boarder's
head and face,