“That paper—where’s the sixth—there are but five sheets here.”
“I wrapped some sweetmeats in it, that I sent to Figaro’s little niece.”
“And this pen—why ’tis yet wet.”
“Yes—I designed a flower.”
“A flower indeed!”
Finding she had the worst of the battle, she flounced away and out of the room, the doctor following her, and positively breathing jealousy.
* * * * *
There was such a knocking at the street door, that the whole house shook in alarm; and old Bertha, the housekeeper, thought it was coming down about her ears. Hence she opened the door with greater speed than she had used for years, and she stood a ghost as there, upon the door step, she saw a soldier—and, moreover, a drunken soldier. She would have banged to the door again—but in so doing she must have crushed the intruder, for he was coolly leaning against the post.
The old housekeeper came steaming back into the room, her arms wide open, and, so to speak—full of the subject—the soldier—the drunken soldier!
“Tramp—tramp—tramp—tramp.” Two steps and a stagger on the part of the soldier.