Mrs. Pilcher was a nursery Macauley, and had the faculty of discovering latent beauties in very small infants, that none but doting parents ever believed.  Agamemnon was an early convert to her avowed opinions of the heir of Applebite, who, like all other heirs of the same age, resembled a black boy boiled—­that is, if there is any affinity between lobsters and niggers.  This peculiar style of eloquence rendered her other eccentricities less objectionable; and when, upon one occasion, the mixture of juniper and cloves had disordered her head, instead of comforting her stomachic regions, she excused herself by solemnly declaring, that “the brilliancy of the little darling’s eyes, and his intoxicating manners, had made her feel as giddy as a goose.”  Collumpsion and Theresa both declared her discernment was equal to her caudle, of which, by-the-bye, she was an excellent concocter and consumer.

Old John and the rest of the servants, however, had no parental string at which Mrs. Pilcher could tug, and the consequence was, that they decided that she was an insufferable bore.  Old John, in particular, felt the ill effects of the heir of Applebite’s appearance in the family, and to such a degree did they interfere with his old comforts, without increasing his pecuniary resources, that he determined one morning, when taking up his master’s shaving water, absolutely to give warning; for what with the morning calls, and continual ringing for glasses—­the perpetual communication kept up between the laundry-maid and the mangle, and of which he was the circulating medium—­the insolence of the nurse, who had ordered him to carry five soiled—­never mind—­down stairs:  all these annoyances combined, the old servant declared were too much for him.

Collumpsion laid his hand on John’s shoulder, and pointing to some of the little evidences of paternity which had found their way even into his dormitory, said, “John, think what I suffer; do not leave me; I’ll raise your wages, and engage a boy to help you; but you are the only thing that reminds me of my happy bachelorhood—­you are the only one that can feel a—­feel a—­”

“Caudle regard,” interrupted John.

“Caudle be ——.”  The “rest is silence,” for at that moment Mrs. Waddledot entered the room, gave a short scream, and went out again.

The month passed, and a hackney-coach, containing a bundle and the respectable Mrs. Pilcher, &c., rumbled from the door of No. 24, to the infinite delight of old John the footman, Betty the housemaid, Esther the nurserymaid, Susan the cook, and Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite the proprietor.