Up came Charlie, in his shirt sleeves, with a steaming jug in one hand and a lamp in the other.  Up came Betsey, in a scarlet petticoat and plaid shawl, her gray locks in curl-papers, and a tallow-candle in hand.  The door was thrown open, Charlie observing,

‘Now, sir,’ then breaking out into ‘Thunder and turf’ (his favourite Hibernian ejaculation); ‘Ssssssss!’ and therewith, her green eyes all one glare, out burst this cat!  She was the nightmare!  She had been sitting on the unfortunate man’s chest, and all her weight had been laid to the score of the chops!

No doubt she had been attracted by the fire, stolen up in the confusion of the house, remained hidden whilst Mr. Newton was going to bed, and when the fire went out, settled herself on his chest, as it seems he slept on his back, and it was a warm position.

Probably his knockings on the wall dislodged her; but if so, imagination carried on the sense of oppression, and with feline pertinacity she had returned as soon as he was still again.

Poor old gentleman!  I am afraid he heard some irrepressible laughter, and it was very sore to him to be ridiculous.  His grave dignity and politeness when he came down very late the next morning were something awful, and it must have been very dreadful to him that he could not get away till half the day was over.

So dry and short was he over matters of business that Charles actually thought we might begin to pack up and make our arrangements for emigrating.  Grave, dry, and civil as ever, he departed, and I never saw him more, nor do I think he ever entirely forgave me.  There did not, however, come any dismissal, and when Charlie had occasion to go up to his office and see him, he was just the same as ever, and acceded to the various arrangements which have made this a civilised, though still rather remote place.

And when he died, a year ago, to our surprise we found that this same reclaimed property was left to my brother.  The consequence whereof you well know, my dear little sister that is to be.  Poor old Chops! you had nearly marred our fortunes; and now, will you go with me to my home at the Rectory, or do you prefer your old abode to your old mistress?

Footnotes: 

{127} [In the book this genealogy is a diagram.  It is rendered as text here.—­DP] John Fulford:  sons:  John Fulford {127a} (married Margaret Lacy) and Henry {127b}.

{127a} John Fulford and Margaret Lacy:  Sir Edward Fulford (married Avice Lee—­died after two years), Arthur, Q.C. (married Edith Ganler) {127c}, Martyn (Professor, married Mary Alwyn) {127d}, Charlotte, Emily, Margaret (married Rev. H. Druce) {127e}.

{127b} Henry had a son called Henry—­whose son was also Henry—­ whose daughter was Isabel.

{127c} Arthur, Q.C. and Edith Ganler:  Margaret called Metelill, Charlotte called Charley, Sons not at New Cove.