“Sad business—sad indeed!” said Hilton, after the merriment had subsided, “such an awful death!”
“Ha, ha, ha!” roared the curate, who had but just then taken the joke about Betsy.
“He, he, he!”
“Nothing to laugh at, that I can see,” observed Mrs Forster, snappishly.
“Capital joke, ma’am, I assure you!” rejoined the curate; “but, Mr Forster, we had better proceed to business. Spinney, where are the papers?” The clerk produced an inventory of the effects of the late Mr Thompson, and laid them on the table.—“Melancholy thing, this, ma’am,” continued the curate, “very melancholy indeed! But we must all die.”
“Yes, thank Heaven!” muttered Nicholas, in an absent manner.
“Thank Heaven, Mr Forster!” cried the lady,—“why, do you wish to die?”
“I was not exactly thinking about myself, my dear,” replied Nicholas—“I—”
“Depend upon it she’ll last a long while yet,” interrupted Mr Hilton.
“Do you think so?” replied Nicholas, mournfully.