hoarsely, as her voice, failing her
strength, rattled indistinctly, and almost died within her. "Take him,
rear him as you will, as you can; any example, any roof, better than--"
Here the words were inaudible. "And oh, may it be a curse and a--Give me
the medicine; I am dying."

The hostess, alarmed, hastened to comply; but before she returned to the
bedside, the sufferer was insensible,--nor did she again recover speech
or motion. A low and rare moan only testified continued life, and within
two hours that ceased, and the spirit was gone. At that time our good
hostess was herself beyond the things of this outer world, having
supported her spirits during the vigils of the night with so many
little liquid stimulants that they finally sank into that torpor
which generally succeeds excitement. Taking, perhaps, advantage of the
opportunity which the insensibility of the hostess afforded him, Dummie,
by the expiring ray of the candle that burned in the death-chamber,
hastily opened a huge box (which was generally concealed under the bed,
and contained the wardrobe of the deceased), and turned with irreverent
hand over the linens and the silks, until quite at the bottom of the
trunk he discovered some packets of letters; these he seized, and buried
in the conveniences of his dress. He then, rising and replacing the box,
cast a longing eye towards the watch on the toilet-table, which was of
gold; but he withdrew his gaze, and with a querulous sigh observed to
himself: "The old blowen kens of that, 'od rat her! but, howsomever,
I'll take this: who knows but it may be of sarvice. Tannies to-day may
be smash to-morrow!" [Meaning, what is of no value now may be precious
hereafter.] and he laid his coarse hand on the golden and silky tresses
we have described. "'T is a rum business, and puzzles I; but mum's the
word for my own little colquarren [neck]."

With this brief soliloquy Dummie descended the stairs and let himself
out of the house.

CHAPTER II.

Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlor splendours of that festive place.
Deserted Village.

There is little to interest in a narrative of early childhood, unless,
indeed, one were writing on education. We shall not, therefore, linger
over the infancy of the motherless boy left to the protection of Mrs.
Margery Lobkins, or, as she was sometimes familiarly called, Peggy, or
Piggy, Lob. The good dame, drawing a more than sufficient income f