Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and Bread and Cheese and Kisses.

'Never mind the door, Jim,' says Mrs. Naldret coaxingly. 'Come and wash your hands.'

'But I shall mind the door!' exclaims Jim Naldret, who is endowed with a large organ of combativeness, and never can be induced to shirk an argument. 'The architect he made this door for warm weather. Then it's all very well. But in this weather, it's a mistake, that's what it is. Directly you open it, comes a blast cold enough to freeze one. I ain't swearing, mother, because I say blast.'

This small pleasantry restores his equanimity, and he repeats it with approving nods; but it produces little effect upon his wife, who says,

'Will you wash your hands and face, father, instead of maudlin?'

'All right, all right, mother! Bring the basin in here, and I'll soon sluice myself.'

Mrs. Naldret, going to their bedroom, which is at the back of the parlour, to get the soap and water, calls out softly from that sanctuary,

'Bessie's here, father.'

'Ah,' he says, rubbing his knuckles before the fire. 'Where is she?'

'Up-stairs in George's room. She'll be down presently. She's pretty low in spirits, father.'

'I suppose you've been having a cry together, mother,' By this time Mrs. Naldret has brought in a basin of water and a towel, which she places on a wooden chair, 'I daresay George'll pipe his eye a bit too, when he says good-bye to some of his mates. Ugh! the water is cold!'

'George pipe his eye! Not him! He's a man is George-not one of your crying sort.'

'I don't know about that,' gasps Jim Naldret; 'a man may be crying although you don't see the tears running down his face. Ugh!'

There was something apposite to his own condition in this remark, for Jim's eyes were smarting and watering in consequence of the soap getting into them.

'That's true, Jim. Many a one's heart cries when the eyes are dry.'

'I can't get over Mr. Million getting that passage-ticket for George. I can't get over it, mother. It's bothered me ever so much.'

'Well, it's only steerage, Jim, and you can't say that it wasn't kind of Mr. Million.'

'I don't know so much about that, mother.'

'Do you know, Jim,' says Mrs. Naldret, after a pause, during which both seem to be thinking of something that they deem it not prudent or wise to speak about, 'that I've sometimes fancied-' Here the old black cat rubs itself against her ankles, and she stoops to fondle it, which perhaps is the reason why she does not complete the sentence.

'Fancied what, mother?

'That young Mr. Million was fond of Bessie.'

'I shouldn't wonder,' he replies, with a cough. 'Who wouldn't be?'

'Yes; but not in that way.'

'Not in what way, mother?'

'You drive me out of all patience, Jim. As if you couldn't understand-but you men are so blind!'

'And you women are so knowing!' retorts Jim Naldret, in a tone made slightly acid because he is groping about for the towel, and cannot find it. 'Where is the towel, mother? That's Bessie's step, I know. Come and kiss me, my girl.'

'There!' exclaims Bessie, who has just entered the room, standing before him with an air of comical remonstrance, with patches of soapsuds on her nose and face, 'you've made my face all wet.'

'Father never will wash the soap off his skin before he dries it,' says Mrs. Naldret, wiping Bessie's face with her apron.

'Never mind, Bessie,' says Mr. Naldret, rubbing himself hot; 'your face'll stand it better than some I've seen. I can't wash the colour out of your cheeks.'

Bessie laughs, and asks him how does he know? and says there is a sort of paint that women use that defies water. While Mrs. Naldret tells him not to be satirical, remarking that all women have their little weaknesses.

'Weaknesses!' echoes Mr. Naldret, digging into the corners of his eyes viciously. 'It's imposition, that's what it is!'

'You'll rub all the skin off your face, if you rub like that.'

'It's a playing a man false,' continues Jim Naldret, not to be diverted from the subject, 'that's what it is. It's a-'

'Is George coming home to tea, do you know, father?' asks Mrs. Naldret, endeavouring to stem the torrent.

'No; he told me we wasn't to wait for him. It's a trading under false pretences-'

'Not coming home to tea! And here I've been laying the tablecloth for him, because I know he enjoys his tea better when there's something white on the table. Mind you remember that, Bessie. There's nothing like studying a man's little ways, if you want to live happy with him.'

'I wondered what the tablecloth was on for,' remarks Jim Naldret; and then resumes with bulldog tenacity, 'It's a trading under false pretences, that's what it is! Little weaknesses! Why-'

'Now, father, will you come and have tea?'

'Now, mother, will you learn manners, and not interrupt? But I can have my tea and talk too.'

Mrs. Naldret makes a great fuss in setting chairs, and a great clatter with the cups and saucers, but her wiles produce not the slightest effect on her husband, who seats himself, and says,

'Well, this is my opinion, and I wouldn't mind a-telling of it to the Queen. What do girls look forward to naturally? Why, matrimony to be sure-'

'Put another lump of sugar in father's cup, Bessie. He likes it sweet.'

'Well,' continues the irrepressible Jim, 'looking forward to that, they ought to be honest and fair to the men, and not try to take them in by painting themselves up. It's a good many years ago that I fell in love with you, mother, and a bright-looking girl you was when you said Yes, to me. You wore roses then, mother! But if, when I married you, I had found that the roses in your cheek came off with a damp towel, and that you hadn't any eyebrows to speak of except what you put on with a brush, and that what I saw of your skin before I married you was a deal whiter than what I saw of your skin after I married you, – I'd-I'd-'

'What on earth would you have done, father?' asks Mrs. Naldret, laughing.

'I'd have had you up before the magistrate,' replies Jim Naldret, with a look of sly humour. 'I'd have had you fined, as sure as my name's Jim.'

'That wouldn't have hurt me,' says Mrs. Naldret, entering into the humour of the idea, and winking at Bessie; 'my husband would have had to pay the fine.'

Jim Naldret gives a great laugh at this conclusion of the argument, in appreciation of having been worsted by these last few pithy words, and says, with an admiring look at his wife,

'Well, let you women alone!'

Then, this subject being disposed of, and Jim Naldret having had his say, Mrs. Naldret asks if he has brought home the Ha'penny Trumpet.

'Yes,' he answers, 'here it is. A great comfort to the poor man are the ha'penny papers. He gets all the news of the day for a ha'penny-all the police-courts-'.

'Ah,' interrupts Mrs. Naldret, 'that's the sort of reading I like. Give me a newspaper with plenty of police-court cases.'