Three years after Jemimarann’s birth (and two after the death of my lamented father-in-law), Tuggeridge (head of the great house of Budgurow and Co.) retired from the management of it; handed over his shares to his son, Mr. John Tuggeridge, and came to live in England, at Portland Place, and Tuggeridgeville, Surrey, and enjoy himself.  Soon after, my wife took her daughter in her hand and went, as in duty bound, to visit her uncle:  but whether it was that he was proud and surly, or she somewhat sharp in her way, (the dear girl fears nobody, let me have you to know,) a desperate quarrel took place between them; and from that day to the day of his death, he never set eyes on her.  All that he would condescend to do, was to take a few dozen of lavender-water from us in the course of the year, and to send his servants to be cut and shaved by us.  All the neighbors laughed at this poor ending of our expectations, for Jemmy had bragged not a little; however, we did not care, for the connection was always a good one, and we served Mr. Hock, the valet; Mr. Bar, the coachman; and Mrs. Breadbasket, the housekeeper, willingly enough.  I used to powder the footman, too, on great days, but never in my life saw old Tuggeridge, except once:  when he said “Oh, the barber!” tossed up his nose, and passed on.

One day—­one famous day last January—­all our Market was thrown into a high state of excitement by the appearance of no less than three vehicles at our establishment.  As me, Jemmy, my daughter, Tug, and Orlando, were sitting in the back-parlor over our dinner (it being Christmas-time, Mr. Crump had treated the ladies to a bottle of port, and was longing that there should be a mistletoe-bough:  at which proposal my little Jemimarann looked as red as a glass of negus):—­we had just, I say, finished the port, when, all of a sudden, Tug bellows out, “La, Pa, here’s uncle Tuggeridge’s housekeeper in a cab!”

And Mrs. Breadbasket it was, sure enough—­Mrs. Breadbasket in deep mourning, who made her way, bowing and looking very sad, into the back shop.  My wife, who respected Mrs. B. more than anything else in the world, set her a chair, offered her a glass of wine, and vowed it was very kind of her to come.  “La, mem,” says Mrs. B., “I’m sure I’d do anything to serve your family, for the sake of that poor dear Tuck-Tuck-tug-guggeridge, that’s gone.”

“That’s what?” cries my wife.

“What, gone?” cried Jemimarann, bursting out crying (as little girls will about anything or nothing); and Orlando looking very rueful, and ready to cry too.

“Yes, gaw—­” Just as she was at this very “gaw” Tug roars out, “La, Pa! here’s Mr. Bar, uncle Tug’s coachman!”

It was Mr. Bar.  When she saw him, Mrs. Breadbasket stepped suddenly back into the parlor with my ladies.  “What is it, Mr. Bar?” says I; and as quick as thought, I had the towel under his chin, Mr. Bar in the chair, and the whole of his face in a beautiful foam of lather.  Mr. Bar made some resistance.—­“Don’t think of it, Mr. Cox,” says he; “don’t trouble yourself, sir.”  But I lathered away and never minded.  “And what’s this melancholy event, sir,” says I, “that has spread desolation in your family’s bosoms?  I can feel for your loss, sir—­I can feel for your loss.”