"Oh, sir, indifferent well, I thank you.
"'All in the merry month of May
When green buds they were swellin',
Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,
For love of Barbara Allen.'
"Are you so—miserable, Peter?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because you sigh, and sigh, like—poor Jemmy Grove in the song."
"He was a fool!" said I.
"For sighing, Peter?"
"For dying."
"I suppose no philosopher could ever be so—foolish, Peter?"
"No," said I; "certainly not!"