“Major! why, Micalf, you are sleeping upon my beautiful cases with real thread-lace borders!”
“Bless me, what is the matter? Is the house on fire? O Lord, I smell smoke—fire!—fire!”
“Do be quiet now, and don’t make a fool of yourself; it’s only the pillow I wanted.”
“Oh, Die! is that you? You have frightened the very life out of me. Give me something to put under my head; my neck is almost broke.”
“There, my dear, is the night pillow. Now, never presume to go to bed again, until the cover is turned down and the day cases removed, and—bless me, how you have tossed the bed! Why, major, major, are you asleep already?”
“What is it, for heaven’s sake? Am I never to know what rest is again?”
“But, my dear—major, I say, shall I tuck you up snugly?”
“No! the devil! I don’t want to be reminded of my coffin every night by being tucked up,” and away went the clothes from the foot and side. “Oh, how I wish——” groaned the major, as Mrs. Micalf again patiently smoothed them down. The wish died upon his tongue, but it was embodied in his dreams:—Once more he was the quiet possessor of the snug little room, and no less snug little bed, at the “Full Moon,” the atmosphere dense with tobacco-smoke and the vapor of whiskey-punch regaling his nose—when the shrill, sharp voice of his help-meet, at dawn of day, dispelled the illusion, and, with the sun, he arose with the comfortable thought that he was not the only being that had sold peace and happiness for gold. And, ere the honey-moon had expired, Mr. and Mrs. Micalf began to perceive that they had made a great mistake in their moonlight flitting.