r a look which she never could forget.

Sambo brought up the rear of the procession. He was quite wet through;
and, if anything would have put his hair out of curl, his ducking would
have done so. But, as he was not a gentleman, he was allowed to walk
home on foot, and, as he passed the widow's window, he gave her one
dreadful glance with his goggling black eyes, and moved on, pointing
with his hands to the shutter.

John Thomas the footman was instantly despatched to Dr. Sly's to have
news of the patient. There was no shilly-shallying now. He came back in
half an hour to say that Mr. Frederick flung himself into Bachelor's
Acre fish-pond with Sambo, had been dragged out with difficulty, had
been put to bed, and had a pint of white wine whey, and was pretty
comfortable. "Thank Heaven!" said the widow, and gave John Thomas a
seven-shilling piece, and sat down with a lightened heart to tea. "What
a heart!" said she to Sister Anne. "And O, what a pity it is that he
squints!"

Here the two captains arrived. They had not been to the Bachelor's Walk;
they had remained at Major Macabaw's consulting the Schiedam. They had
made up their minds what to say. "Hang the fellow! he will never have
the pluck to drown himself," said Captain Blackbeard. "Let us argue on
that, as we may safely."

"My sweet lady," said he, accordingly, "we have had the pond dragged. No
Mr. Sly. And the fisherman who keeps the punt assures us that he has not
been there all day."

"Audacious falsehood!" said the widow, her eyes flashing fire. "Go,
heartless man! who dares to trifle thus with the feelings of a
respectable and unprotected woman. Go, sir, you're only fit for the love
of a--Dolly--Coddlins!" She pronounced the _Coddlins_ with a withering
sarcasm that struck the captain aghast; and, sailing out of the room,
she left her tea untasted, and did not wish either of the military
gentlemen good night.

But, gentles, an' ye know the delicate fibre of woman's heart, ye will
not in very sooth believe that such events as those we have
described--such tempests of passion--fierce winds of woe--blinding
lightnings of tremendous joy and tremendous grief--could pass over one
frail flower and leave it all unscathed. No! Grief kills as joy doth.
Doth not the scorching sun nip the rose-bud as well as the bitter wind?
As Mrs. Sigourney sweetly sings:--

"Ah! the heart is a soft and a delicate thing;
Ah! the heart is a lute with a thrilling string;