Mrs. Corney drooped her head, when the beadle said this, the beadle drooped his, to get a view of Mrs. Corney's face. Mrs. Corney, with great propriety, turned her head away, and released her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief; but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr. Bumble.

“The board allow you coals, don't they, Mrs. Corney?” inquired the beadle, affectionately pressing her hand.

“And candles,” replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the pressure.

“Coals, candles, and house-rent free,” said Mr. Bumble. “Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a Angel you are!”

The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sank into Mr. Bumble's arms; and that gentleman in his agitation, imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chaste nose.

“Such porochial perfection!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. “You know that Mr. Slout is worse to- night, my fascinator?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully.

“He can't live a week, the doctor says,” pursued Mr. Bumble. “He is the master of this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy: that wacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!”

Mrs. Corney sobbed.

“The little word?” said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty. “The one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?”

“Ye – ye – yes!” sighed out the matron.

“One more,” pursued the beadle; “compose your darling feelings for only one more. When is it to come off?”

Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak: and twice failed. At length summoning up courage, she threw her arms around Mr. Bumble's neck, and said, it might be as soon as ever he pleased, and that he was “a irresistible duck.”

Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract was solemnly ratified in another teacupful of the peppermint mixture; which was rendered the more necessary, by the flutter and agitation of the lady's spirits. While it was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the old woman's decease.

“Very good,” said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; “I'll call at Sowerberry's as I go home, and tell him to send to-morrow morning. Was it that as frightened you, love?”

“It wasn't anything particular, dear,” said the lady, evasively.

“It must have been something, love,” urged Mr. Bumble. “Won't you tell your own B.?”

“Not now,” rejoined the lady; “one of these days. After we're married, dear.”

“After we're married!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble. “It wasn't any impudence from any of them male paupers as – ”

“No, no, love!” interposed the lady, hastily.