morning Doctor Unonius was called away from his breakfast to
visit Sarah Puckey, an aged market woman or 'regrater,' whom he found
in a state of prostration following (it was alleged) upon a severe
nervous shock. He attended the old woman for the remainder of her
days, which were few; and while they lasted she remained--in the
language of Polpeor--a 'bedrider.' She never confided to him the
nature of the shock which had laid her low; but at the last,
satisfied of her own salvation, she worried herself sadly over the
doctor and his defenceless life.

'I'm a saved woman,' she declared, 'and a dyin' old woman, and these
things be clear to my eyes. A wife--that's what you want. Your
laudanums and your doldadums and your nummy-dummies[1] may be all
very well--'

'What are they?' asked the doctor.

'Latin,' she answered promptly. 'I be a dyin' woman, I tell 'ee, an'
got the gift o' tongues. . . . And your 'natomies and fishes' innards
may be all very well, but you want a wife to look after the money an'
tell the men to wipe their sea-boots 'pon the front mat. When it
comes to their unpickin' a trawl in your very drawin'-room, an' fish
scales all over the best Brussels, as I've a-see'd 'em before now--'
Mrs Puckey paused for breath.

'Have 'ee ever had a mind to the widow Tresize?' she asked.

'Certainly not,' the doctor answered.

'That's a pity, too: for Landeweddy Farm's her own freehold, an' I've
heard her say more'n once how sorry she feels for you, livin' alone
as you do. I don't everyways like Missus Tresize, but she's a
bowerly woman an' nimble for her age--which can't be forty, not by a
year or two. Old Tresize married her for her looks. I mind goin' to
the weddin', an' she brought en no more'n her clothes an' herself
inside of 'em: an' now she've a-buried th' old doter, an' sits up at
Landeweddy in her own parlour a-playin' the pianner with both hands.
What d'ee reckon a woman does _that_ for?'

'Maybe because she is fond of music,' said Doctor Unonius dryly.

The invalid chuckled, until her old head in its white mob-cap nodded
against the white pillow propping it.

'I married three men mysel' in my time, as you d' know; an' if either
wan had been rich enough to leave me a pianner, I'd ha' married three
more. . . . What tickles me is you men with your talk o' spoort.
Catchin' fish for a business I can understand: you got to do that for
money, which is the first thing in life; an' when you're marri