“Kind—kind creature!” sobbed Mrs. Fum, as she poured out the last of the liquor. And Paul was sorely puzzled, whether the encomium applied to the defunct or himself. “Do you know, Mr. Dempsey,” here she gave a kind of hysterical giggle, that might take any turn,—hilarious, or the reverse, as events should dictate,—“do you know that as I see you there, standing before the fire, looking so pleasant and cheerful, so much at home, as a body might say, I can't help fancying a great resemblance between you and my poor dear Fum. He was older than you,” said she, rapidly, as a slight cloud passed over Paul's features;-“older and stouter, but he had the same jocose smile, the same merry voice, and even that little fidgety habit with the hands. I know you 'll forgive me,—even that was his.”
This was in all probability strictly correct, inasmuch as for several years before his demise the gifted individual had labored under a perpetual “delirium tremens.”
“He rather liked this kind of thing,” said Paul, pantomiming the action of drinking with his now empty glass.
“In moderation,-only in moderation.”
“I 've heard that it disagreed with him,” rejoined Paul, who, not pleased with his counterpart, resolved on showing a knowledge of his habits.
“So it did,” sighed Mrs. Fum; “and he gave it up in consequence.”
“I heard that, too,” said Paul; and then muttered to himself, “on the morning he died.”
A gentle tap at the door now broke in upon the colloquy, and a very slatternly servant woman, with bare legs and feet, made her appearance.
“What d'ye want, Biddy?” asked her mistress, in an angry voice. “I 'm just settling accounts with Mr. Dempsey, and you bounce in as if the house was on fire.”
“It 's just himsel 's wanted,” replied the northern maiden; “the leddie canna get on ava without him, he maun come up to number 'eight,' as soon as he can.”