consent to the young couple commencing housekeeping, at the Academy in Newman Street, when they would.

“And your papa, Caddy. What did he say?”

“O! poor Pa,” said Caddy, “only cried, and said he hoped we might get on better than he and Ma had got on. He didn’t say so before Prince; he only said so to me. And he said, ‘My poor girl, you have not been very well taught how to make a home for your husband; but unless you mean with all your heart to strive to do it, you bad better murder him than marry him — if you really love him.’”

“And how did you reassure him, Caddy?”

“Why, it was very distressing, you know, to see poor Pa so low, and hear him say such terrible things, and I couldn’t help crying myself. But I told him that I did mean it, with all my heart; and that I hoped our house would be a place for him to come and find some comfort in, of an evening; and that I hoped and thought I could be a better daughter to him there, than at home. Then I mentioned Peepy’s coming to stay with me; and then Pa began to cry again, and said the children were Indians.”

“Indians, Caddy?”

“Yes,” said Caddy, “Wild Indians. And Pa said,” — (here she began to sob, poor girl, not at all like the happiest girl in the world) — “that he was sensible the best thing that could happen to them was, their being all Tomahawked together.”

Ada suggested that it was comfortable to know that Mr Jellyby did not mean these destructive sentiments.

“No, of course I know Pa wouldn’t like his family to be weltering in their blood,” said Caddy; “but he means that they are very unfortunate in being Ma’s children, and that he is very unfortunate in being Ma’s husband; and I am sure that’s true, though it seems unnatural to say so.”

I asked Caddy if Mrs Jellyby knew that her wedding-day was fixed.

“O! you know what Ma is, Esther,” she returned. “It’s impossible to say whether she knows it or not. She has been told it often enough; and when she is told it, she only gives me a placid look, as if I was I don’t know what — a steeple in the distance,” said Caddy, with a sudden idea; “and then she shakes her head, and says ‘O, Caddy, Caddy, what a teaze you are!’ and goes on with the Borrioboola letters.”

“And about your wardrobe, Caddy?” said I. For she was under no restraint with us.

“Well, my dear Esther,” she returned, drying her eyes, “I must do the best I can, and trust to my dear Prince never to have an unkind remembrance of my coming so shabbily to him. If the question concerned an outfit for Borrioboola, Ma would know all about it, and would be quite excited. Being what it is, she neither knows nor cares.”

Caddy was not at all deficient in natural affection for her mother, but mentioned this with tears, as an undeniable fact: which I am afraid it was. We were sorry for the poor dear girl, and found so much to admire in the good disposition which had survived under such discouragement, that we both at once (I mean Ada and I) proposed a little scheme, that made her perfectly joyful. This was, her staying with us for three weeks; my staying with her for one; and our all three contriving and cutting out, and repairing, and sewing, and saving, and doing the very best we could think of, to make the most of her stock. My guardian being as pleased with the idea as Caddy was, we took her home next day to arrange the matter; and brought her out again in triumph, with her boxes, and all the purchases that could be squeezed out of a ten-pound note, which Mr Jellyby had found in the Docks I suppose, but which he at all events gave her. What my guardian would not have given her, if we had encouraged him, it would be difficult to say; but