“Yes, sir.”

“Or the Chronicles of the Canongate.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Or Anne of Geierstein.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Or the Loves of the Poets.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Or, d’ye hear, hang it, tell Mr. Mason there are seven or eight other new works, the names of which I have forgotten, and he must recollect.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Stop, stop—­don’t be in such a hurry—­tell him, he has never ordered for me the Quarterly, as I desired—­that I want to see the United Service Journal, and Blackwood for the month; and that if he chooses to charge four pence a night for his new novels, I’ll not read one of them.”

“Of course, sir; I’ll tell him, for ’tis a shame, a real shame, for any body to repose on, as one may say, a gentleman like yourself.  Never fear, but I’ll tell him.”

The lady retired, the door closed, and Mr. Hardingham sighed, “A worthy creature is Martha Honeydew.”  “Come in,” cried the gentleman in a most amiable tone, as he presently recognised his housekeeper’s tap at the parlour door, and with a curtsey she entered.

“O law, law!  Mr. Hardingham, sir—­Mr. Mason says—­but I don’t like to give you all his message, indeed I don’t—­Mr. Mason says—­but I hope you’ll never send me on such an arrant again—­he says, sir—­O but I’m sorry for it, that I am—­he says then, that the Quarter you ax’d for, ar’n’t come yet, and there’s time enough for you to read it in when it do; that the Blackwood and the Officers’ Magazine are hout; that you may go without your new novels afore he’ll let you have ’em chaiper than other folks, (and there’s a shocking shame, sir!) and as for the works you mentioned, there’s fifty new ones at least to choose from; but he can’t remember what you don’t be pleased to recollect yourself.  Dear heart! to think of a gentleman like you, sir, being trated thus; why, my blood biled within me; and I wouldn’t demean myself to bring back any thing for you from that place; but I took the liberty, sir, to get you ‘Damon and Dorinda,’ a sweet pretty thing, from another.”

“Ah!” sighed the bachelor, “I see there’s nobody in this world cares for poor Jack Hardingham, but Martha Honeydew;” and he felt sorry that his housekeeper had departed ere his lips had emitted this grateful praise.  Yes, Mr. Hardingham felt vexed he scarcely knew why; and uncommonly discontented he knew not wherefore; but had he troubled himself to analyze such feelings, he would have discerned their origin to be solitude and idleness.  Mrs. Honeydew brought tea; she had buttered a couple of muffins superlatively well; and making her master’s fire burn exceedingly bright, placed them on the cat before it, and a kettle, which immediately commenced a delicate bravura, upon the glowing coals; then, modestly waiting at the distance of a few paces from her master until the water quite boiled, she fixed her brilliant eyes upon his countenance with an expression intended to be piteous.