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intention in the poor old woman; but on the present occasion they are so particularly lively in connexion with a Windsor arm-chair, fellow to that in which Mr. Smallweed is seated, that she only quite desists when her grandchildren have held her down in it: her lord in the meanwhile bestowing upon her, with great volubility, the endearing epithet of “a pig-headed Jackdaw,” repeated a surprising number of times.

“My dear sir,” Grandfather Smallweed then proceeds, addressing Mr. Guppy, “there has been a calamity here. Have you heard of it, either of you?”

“Heard of it, sir! Why we discovered it.”

“You discovered it. You two discovered it! Bart, they discovered it!”

The two discoverers stare at the Smallweeds, who return the compliment.

“My dear friends,” whines Grandfather Smallweed, putting out both his hands, “I owe you a thousand thanks for discharging the melancholy office of discovering the ashes of Mrs. Smallweed's brother.”

“Eh?” says Mr. Guppy.

“Mrs. Smallweed's brother, my dear friend—her only relation. We were not on terms, which is to be deplored now, but he never would be on terms. He was not fond of us. He was eccentric—he was very eccentric. Unless he has left a will (which is not at all likely) I shall take out letters of administration. I have come down to look after the property; it must be sealed up, it must be protected. I have come down, repeats Grandfather Smallweed, hooking the air towards him with all his ten fingers at once, “to look after the property.”

“I think, Small,” says the disconsolate Mr. Guppy, “you might have mentioned that the old man was your uncle.”

“You two were so close about him that I thought you would like me to be the same,” returns that old bird, with a secretly glistening eye. “Besides, I wasn't proud of him.”

“Besides which, it was nothing to you, you know, whether he was or not,” says Judy. Also with a secretly glistening eye.

“He never saw me in his life, to know me,” observes Small; “I don't know why I should introduce him, I am sure!”

“No, he never communicated with us—which is to be deplored,” the old gentleman strikes in; “but I have come to look after the property—to look over the papers, and to look after the property. We shall make good our title. It is in the hands of my solicitor. Mr. Tulkinghorn, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, over the way there, is so good as to act as my solicitor; and grass don't grow under his feet, I can tell ye. Krook was Mrs. Smallweed's only brother; she had no relation but Krook, and Krook had no relation but Mrs. Smallweed. I am speaking of your brother, you brimstone black-beetle, that was seventy-six years of age.”

Mrs. Smallweed instantly begins to shake her head, and pipe up, “Seventy-six pound seven and sevenpence! Seventy-six thousand bags of money! Seventy-six hundred thousand million of parcels of bank notes!”

“Will somebody give me a quart pot?” exclaims her exasperated hasband, looking helplessly about him, and finding no missile within his reach. “Will somebody obleege me with a spittoon? Will somebody hand