“Oh! don’t be silly.  Mash!” said Miss Philomela, losing all patience with the cook.

“I—­I—­boo-boo-hoo!—­can’t help it, marm.”

“Nonsense!” said the superior female.  “As for you, Marcus, you should not encourage such folly, when you have troubles that demand our sober and earnest attention.  With reference to the past, I might say a great many things, but I forbear.  To be serious, now—­for once in your life—­what can I do for you?”

“Will you do what I ask, faithfully?” asked Marcus.

“Yes, faithfully.  I promise.”

“Then, my sister, be so good as to go home immediately, and send me a spare shirt and a change of clothes.  Mash can bring them.  And, lest another interview should prove too severe a trial for your female sensibility, I beg that you will not come here again.  If I want you very much, I can send for you.”

“You are very unkind—­very unkind.  But I will not make any remarks.  You know that nothing would give me greater pleasure than to serve my brother.  For, though you have faults—­I suppose you will not deny that you have some little faults—­you are still my brother.”

Marcus smiled, and thought how foolish it was to quarrel with the whimsical but not bad-hearted woman.  “Well, sister Philomela, you can see for yourself that I am not ill used here.  Comfortable bed, rousing fire, and warm meals from the restaurant round the corner!  The lieutenant[1] who is in command of this station house turns out to be an old friend of my boyhood, and treats me more like a guest than a prisoner.  And I must say, that, but for the idea of a prison, I could live as pleasantly here as at home.  Even you can do nothing to lighten my captivity.  But I promise, that if I am held by this coroner’s jury—­which, of course, I shall not be—­and am sent to the Tombs, then I will tax your sisterly affection to the utmost.”

[Footnote 1:  Called sergeant of police under the recent Metropolitan Act.]

At the mention of that dreadful place, the “Tombs,” Mash broke into sobs again.  The touching experiences of Gerald Florville in that house of despair—­as set forth in “The Buttery and the Boudoir”—­were poignantly brought to her mind.

Miss Philomela looked serious as the Tombs loomed up in her mind, and she would have said something condoling, but for the irritating conduct of the cook, who annoyed her so much that she decided to leave.  She abruptly shook hands with her half-brother.  “It is very easy,” said she, “to point out how certain mistakes might have been avoided.  But let the past go.  If you are not acquitted to-morrow, I shall call here again, notwithstanding you don’t seem very desirous to see me.  Now, good-by.  Come, hurry up, Mash!”

Marcus shook hands with his half-sister, and also with Mash, who wept afresh.