Mrs. Bloundel was a specimen of a city dame of the best kind.  She had a few pardonable vanities, which no arguments could overcome—­such as a little ostentation in dress—­a little pride in the neatness of her house—­and a good deal in the beauty of her children, especially in that of Amabel—­as well as in the wealth and high character of her husband, whom she regarded as the most perfect of human beings.  These slight failings allowed for, nothing but good remained.  Her conduct was exemplary in all the relations of life.  The tenderest of mothers, and the most affectionate of wives, she had as much genuine piety and strictness of moral principles as her husband.  Short, plump, and well-proportioned, though somewhat, perhaps, exceeding the rules of symmetry—­she had a rich olive complexion, fine black eyes, beaming with good nature, and an ever-laughing mouth, ornamented by a beautiful set of teeth.  To wind up all, she was a few years younger than her husband.

Amabel has already been described.  The youngest girl, Christiana, was a pretty little dove-eyed, flaxen-haired child, between four and five years old, and shared the fate of most younger children, being very much caressed, and not a little spoiled by her parents.

The foregoing description of the grocer’s family would be incomplete without some mention of his household.  Old Josyna Shotterel, the cook, who had lived with her master ever since his marriage, and had the strongest attachment for him, was a hale, stout dame, of about sixty, with few infirmities for her years, and with less asperity of temper than generally belongs to servants of her class.  She was a native of Holland, and came to England early in life, where she married Blaize’s father, who died soon after their union.  An excellent cook in a plain way—­indeed, she had no practice in any other—­she would brew strong ale and mead, or mix a sack-posset with, any innkeeper in the city.  Moreover, she was a careful and tender nurse, if her services were ever required in that capacity.  The children looked upon her as a second mother; and her affection for them, which was unbounded, deserved their regard.  She was a perfect storehouse of what are termed “old women’s receipts;” and there were few complaints (except the plague) for which she did not think herself qualified to prescribe and able to cure.  Her skill in the healing art was often tested by her charitable mistress, who required her to prepare remedies, as well as nourishing broths, for such of the poor of the parish as applied to her for relief at times of sickness.

Her son, Blaize, was a stout, stumpy fellow, about four feet ten, with a head somewhat too large for his body, and extremely long arms.  Ever since the plague had broken out in Drury-lane, it haunted him like a spectre, and scattered the few faculties he possessed.  In vain he tried to combat his alarm—­in vain his mother endeavoured to laugh him out of it.  Nothing would do.  He