There!  Begone!  Be in a plaguy hurry running up stair and down, to fetch from the dining-room what you carry up on purpose to fetch, till motion extraordinary put you out of breath, and give you the sigh natural.

What’s the matter, Dorcas?

Nothing, Madam.

My beloved wonders she has not seen me this morning, no doubt; but is too shy to say she wonders.  Repeated What’s the matter, however, as Dorcas runs up and down stairs by her door, bring on, O Madam! my master! my poor master!

What!  How!  When!—­and all the monosyllables of surprize.

[Within parentheses let me tell thee, that I have often thought, that the little words in the republic of letters, like the little folks in a nation, are the most significant.  The trisyllables, and the rumblers of syllables more than three, are but the good-for-little magnates.]

I must not tell you, Madam—­My master ordered me not to tell you—­but he is in a worse way than he thinks for!—­But he would not have you frighted.

High concern took possession of every sweet feature.  She pitied me!—­by my soul, she pitied me!

Where is he?

Too much in a hurry for good manners, [another parenthesis, Jack!  Good manners are so little natural, that we ought to be composed to observe them:  politeness will not live in a storm].  I cannot stay to answer questions, cries the wench—­though desirous to answer [a third parenthesis—­Like the people crying proclamations, running away from the customers they want to sell to].  This hurry puts the lady in a hurry to ask, [a fourth, by way of establishing the third!] as the other does the people in a hurry to buy.  And I have in my eye now a whole street raised, and running after a proclamation or express-crier, as if the first was a thief, the other his pursuers.

At last, O Lord! let Mrs. Lovelace know!—­There is danger, to be sure! whispered from one nymph to another; but at the door, and so loud, that my listening fair-one might hear.

Out she darts—­As how! as how, Dorcas!

O Madam—­A vomiting of blood!  A vessel broke, to be sure!

Down she hastens; finds every one as busy over my blood in the entry, as if it were that of the Neapolitan saint.

In steps my charmer, with a face of sweet concern.

How do you, Mr. Lovelace?

O my best love!—­Very well!—­Very well!—­Nothing at all! nothing of consequence!—­I shall be well in an instant!—­Straining again! for I was indeed plaguy sick, though no more blood came.

In short, Belford, I have gained my end.  I see the dear soul loves me.  I see she forgives me all that’s past.  I see I have credit for a new score.

Miss Howe, I defy thee, my dear—­Mrs. Townsend!—­Who the devil are you?—­ Troop away with your contrabands.  No smuggling! nor smuggler, but myself!  Nor will the choicest of my fair-one’s favours be long prohibited goods to me!