“O sir, he doted alive upon me, as I did upon him—­poor, darling old Paul.”

“Ah, he was old, was he?”

“Yes, sir, and left me very rich.”

“But what do you wish me to do for you?”

“Why, sir, he was very fond of money; was, in fact, a—­a—­kind of miser in his way.  My father and mother forced me to marry the dear old man, and I did so to please them; but at the same time he was very kind in his manner to me—­indeed, so kind that he allowed me a shilling a month for pocket money.”

“Well, but what is your object in coming to me?”

“Why, sir, to ask your opinion on a case of great difficulty.”

“Very well, madam; you shall have the best opinion in the known world upon the subject—­that is, as soon as I hear it.  Speak out without hesitation, and conceal nothing.”

“Why, sir, the poor dear man before his death—­ah, that ever my darling old Paul should have been taken away from me!—­the poor dear man, before his death—­ahem—­before his death—­O, ah,”—­here came another effusion—­“began to—­to—­to—­get jealous of me with a young man in the neighborhood that—­that—­I was fond of before I married my dear old Paul.”

“Was the young man in question handsome?”

“Indeed, sir, he was, and is, very handsome—­and the impudent minxes of the parish are throwing their caps at him in dozens.”

“But still you are keeping me in the dark.”

“Well, sir, I will tell you my difficulty.  When poor dear old Paul was dying, he called me to the bed-side one day, and says to me:  ‘Biddy,’ says he, ’I’m going to die—­and you know I am wealthy; but, in the meantime, I won’t leave you sixpence.’  ’It’s not the loss of your money I am thinking of, my darling Paul,’ says I, ’but the loss of yourself”—­and I kissed him, and cried.  ‘You didn’ often kiss me that way before,’ said he—­’ and I know what you’re kissing me for now.’  ‘No,’ I said, ’I did not; because I had no notion then of losing you, my own darling Paul—­you don’t know how I loved you all along, Paul,’ said I; ‘kiss me again, jewel.’  ‘Now,’ said he,’ I’m not going to leave you sixpence, and I’ll tell you why—­I saw young Charley Mulvany, that you were courting before I married you—­I saw him, I say, through the windy there, kiss you, with my own eyes, when you thought I was asleep—­and you put your arms about his neck and hugged him,’ said he.  I must be particular, sir, in order that you may understand the difficulty I’m in.”

“Proceed, madam,” said the conjurer.  “If I were young I certainly would envy Charley Mulvany—­but proceed.”

“Well, sir, I replied to him:  ‘Paul, dear,’ said I, ’that was a kiss of friendship—­and the reason of it was, that poor Charley was near crying when he heard that you were going to die and to leave me so lonely.’  ‘Well,’ said he, ’that may be—­many a thing may be that’s not likely—­and that may be one of them.  Go and get a prayer-book, and