bag.  She never puts it up, having the greatest reliance on her well-proved cloak with its capacious hood, but generally uses the instrument as a wand with which to point out joints of meat or bunches of greens in marketing or to arrest the attention of tradesmen by a friendly poke.  Without her market-basket, which is a sort of wicker well with two flapping lids, she never stirs abroad.  Attended by these her trusty companions, therefore, her honest sunburnt face looking cheerily out of a rough straw bonnet, Mrs. Bagnet now arrives, fresh-coloured and bright, in George’s Shooting Gallery.

“Well, George, old fellow,” says she, “and how do you do, this sunshiny morning?”

Giving him a friendly shake of the hand, Mrs. Bagnet draws a long breath after her walk and sits down to enjoy a rest.  Having a faculty, matured on the tops of baggage-waggons and in other such positions, of resting easily anywhere, she perches on a rough bench, unties her bonnet-strings, pushes back her bonnet, crosses her arms, and looks perfectly comfortable.

Mr. Bagnet in the meantime has shaken hands with his old comrade and with Phil, on whom Mrs. Bagnet likewise bestows a good-humoured nod and smile.

“Now, George,” said Mrs. Bagnet briskly, “here we are, Lignum and myself”—­she often speaks of her husband by this appellation, on account, as it is supposed, of Lignum Vitae having been his old regimental nickname when they first became acquainted, in compliment to the extreme hardness and toughness of his physiognomy—­“just looked in, we have, to make it all correct as usual about that security.  Give him the new bill to sign, George, and he’ll sign it like a man.”

“I was coming to you this morning,” observes the trooper reluctantly.

“Yes, we thought you’d come to us this morning, but we turned out early and left Woolwich, the best of boys, to mind his sisters and came to you instead—­as you see!  For Lignum, he’s tied so close now, and gets so little exercise, that a walk does him good.  But what’s the matter, George?” asks Mrs. Bagnet, stopping in her cheerful talk.  “You don’t look yourself.”

“I am not quite myself,” returns the trooper; “I have been a little put out, Mrs. Bagnet.”

Her bright quick eye catches the truth directly.  “George!” holding up her forefinger.  “Don’t tell me there’s anything wrong about that security of Lignum’s!  Don’t do it, George, on account of the children!”

The trooper looks at her with a troubled visage.

“George,” says Mrs. Bagnet, using both her arms for emphasis and occasionally bringing down her open hands upon her knees.  “If you have allowed anything wrong to come to that security of Lignum’s, and if you have let him in for it, and if you have put us in danger of being sold up—­and I see sold up in your face, George, as plain as print—­you have done a shameful action and have deceived us cruelly.  I tell you, cruelly, George.  There!”