“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Mr. Tracey CLEWS, in a manner almost stealthy; “but, as I am about to take summer board with the lady of this house, I beg leave to inquire if she and the man she married are strictly moral except in having cold dinner on Sunday?”

Mr. Bumstead, who sat very limply in his chair, said that she was a very good woman, a very good woman, and would spare no pains to secure the comfort of such a head of hair as he then saw before him.

“This is my dear friend, Judge Sweeney,” continued the Ritualistic organist, languidly waving a spoon towards that gentleman, “who has a very good wife in the grave, and knows much more about women and gravy than I. As for me,” exclaimed Mr. Bumstead, suddenly climbing upon the arm of his chair and staring at Mr. CLEW’S head rather wildly, “my only bride was of black alpaca, with a brass ferrule, and I can never care for the sex again.”  Here Mr. Bumstead, whose eyes had been rolling in an extraordinary manner, tumbled into his chair again, and then, frowning intensely, helped himself to lemon tea.

“I am referred to your Honor for further particulars,” observed Mr. Tracey CLEWS, bowing again to Judge Sweeney.  “Not to wound our friend further by discussion of the fair sex, may I ask if Bumsteadville contains many objects of interest for a stranger, like myself?”

“One, at least, sir,” answered the Judge.  “I think I could show you a tombstone which you would find very good reading.  An epitaph upon my late better-half.  If you are a married man you can not help enjoying it.”

Mr. CLEWS regretted to inform his Honor, that he had never been a married man, and, therefore, could not presume to fancy what the literary enjoyment of a widower must be at such a treat.

“A journalist, I presume?” insinuated Judge Sweeney, more and more struck by the other’s perfect pageant of incomprehensible hair and beard.

“His Honor flatters me too much.”

“Something in the lunatic line, then, perhaps?”

“I have told your Honor that I never was married.”

Since last speaking, Mr. Bumstead had been staring at the new boarder’s head and face, with a countenance expressive of mingled consternation and wrath, and now made a startling rush at him from his chair and fairly forced half a glass of lemon tea down his throat.

“There, sir!” said the mourning organist, panting with suppressed excitement.  “That will keep you from taking cold until you can be walked up and down in the open air long enough to get your hair and beard sober.  They have been indulging, sir, until the top of your head has fallen over backwards, and your whiskers act as though they belonged to somebody else.  The sight confuses me, sir, and in my present state of mind I can’t bear it.”

Coughing from the lemon tea, and greatly amazed by his hasty dismissal, Mr. CLEWS followed Judge Sweeney from the room and house in precipitate haste, and, when they were fairly out of doors, remarked, that the gentleman they had just left had surprised him unprecedentedly, and that he was very much put out by it.