e nearest magistrate, called on
business, and to him Worrell related his domestic troubles.

"'I can't do without her, for she is a splendid cook, and keeps my
clothes in first-rate order. I can't bear the thought of the cookery I
should have to eat, and the dirt and disorder I should see around me, if
she does go away. But she's a regular Tartar, and I've no authority at
all in my house.'

"'Well, Worrell, it's a hard case; but I would chain up that dog. As to
poor little Gilbert, do what you think is right in spite of her. If she
leaves--Ah, I have it. Go into town, and propose to one of the F.
sisters. They are all good cooks and amiable women, and you'll be rid of
your Tartar.'

"'Wich I'm much hobleeged to you for the name, an' the good advice you
give the master, stirrin' hov 'im hup against a lone, friendless widow,
wat's slaved an' worked this six years come St. Michaelmas.'

"Mr. Grahame, of course, with the _mauvais honte_ which men too
generally display towards angry and unreasonable women, took an awkward
leave of the angry widow, and poor Worrell, whom she treated to a
lecture of half an hour, ending with a lively fit of tears and
hysterics. As the poor little man turned away, leaving her in the hands
of a servant, he caught her last broken objurgations.

"'An hungrateful fool, marry an' turn me hoff; ugh, ugh! fix 'im, hany
'ow.'

"The following morning Worrell rose early, and passing through the
breakfast-room, received a sulky greeting from his housekeeper, and went
out to over-look the labors of his men. Feeling a little unwell, he
returned to his room, and finding his dog in his bed, flung him into a
spare room, and getting into bed, went to sleep. Now, both dog and
master had a very unhealthy habit--that of keeping the head covered with
bed-clothes; and so it happened that when Mrs. Sims entered the room,
she saw, as she supposed, the black ears and head of the hated Carlo.

"Revenge urged her to undue and overhasty punishment; her overcharged
feelings sought relief on some object, and a stout-handled broom was in
her grasp. At last vengeance was within her reach; should she relinquish
it? No, a thousand times no!

"'You dirty brute!' she yelled, in fury. 'You hold rascal, I'll pay you
out! I'll murder you! I'll kill you!'

"Such was the preface of a shower of blows, which suddenly broke the
rest of the defenceless Worrell. Half stunned, astounded, almost
paralyzed, he heard, as if in a ter