I leave you to fancy what a splendid triumph for the British Washerwoman’s Home was to come off on that day.  A beautiful tent was erected, in which the Ladies-Patronesses were to meet:  it was hung round with specimens of the skill of the washerwomen’s orphans; ninety-six of whom were to be feasted in the gardens, and waited on by the Ladies-Patronesses.

Well, Jemmy and my daughter, Madame de Flicflac, myself, the Count, Baron Punter, Tug, and Tagrag, all went down in the chariot and barouche-and-four, quite eclipsing poor Lady Kilblazes and her carriage-and-two.

There was a fine cold collation, to which the friends of the Ladies-Patronesses were admitted; after which, my ladies and their beaux went strolling through the walks; Tagrag and the Count having each an arm of Jemmy; the Baron giving an arm apiece to Madame and Jemimarann.  Whilst they were walking, whom should they light upon but poor Orlando Crump, my successor in the perfumery and hair-cutting.

“Orlando!” says Jemimarann, blushing as red as a label, and holding out her hand.

“Jemimar!” says he, holding out his, and turning as white as pomatum.

“Sir!” says Jemmy, as stately as a duchess.

“What! madam,” says poor Crump, “don’t you remember your shopboy?”

“Dearest mamma, don’t you recollect Orlando?” whimpers Jemimarann, whose hand he had got hold of.

“Miss Tuggeridge Coxe,” says Jemmy, “I’m surprised of you.  Remember, sir, that our position is altered, and oblige me by no more familiarity.”

“Insolent fellow!” says the Baron, “vat is dis canaille?”

“Canal yourself, Mounseer,” says Orlando, now grown quite furious:  he broke away, quite indignant, and was soon lost in the crowd.  Jemimarann, as soon as he was gone, began to look very pale and ill; and her mamma, therefore, took her to a tent, where she left her along with Madame Flicflac and the Baron; going off herself with the other gentlemen, in order to join us.

It appears they had not been seated very long, when Madame Flicflac suddenly sprung up, with an exclamation of joy, and rushed forward to a friend whom she saw pass.

The Baron was left alone with Jemimarann; and, whether it was the champagne, or that my dear girl looked more than commonly pretty, I don’t know; but Madame Flicflac had not been gone a minute, when the Baron dropped on his knees, and made her a regular declaration.

Poor Orlando Crump had found me out by this time, and was standing by my side, listening, as melancholy as possible, to the famous Bohemian Minnesingers, who were singing the celebrated words of the poet Gothy:—­

“Ich bin ya hupp lily lee, du bist ya hupp lily lee. 
Wir sind doch hupp lily lee, hupp la lily lee.” 
“Chorus—­Yodle-odle-odle-odle-odle-odle hupp! yodle-odle-aw-o-o-o!”