The enclosure alluded to was a bank post-bill for two hundred pounds. It is unnecessary, however, to dwell upon the happiness which this communication conferred upon Mrs. Temple and her affectionate family. She saw her accomplished and amiable husband's brilliant talents and many rare virtues, about to be rewarded—she saw poverty, distress, and famine driven from their hearth—she saw her beloved children about to be placed in circumstances not unbecoming their birth; and, having contemplated all this, she wept once more with a sense of happiness, as pure as it was unexpected.
Breakfast was now over—a plain and severely frugal one, by the way, it was—and her husband was about to proceed to Lisnisgola, in order to get the bank post-bill changed, when, from the parlor where they sat, he saw the Cannie Soogah approaching the hall-door, the huge pack, as usual, on his shoulder.
“Here, my love, comes that benevolent pedlar,” he exclaimed, “whose conduct, on the occasion you mentioned, was at once so delicate and generous.”
He then stepped to the window, and raised it as our friend approached, who, on seeing him, put his hand to his hat, exclaiming, “Many happy returns of the saison, sir, to you and your family! My Christmas-box on you!”
“I thank you, my friend,” replied Mr. Temple, “and I sincerely wish you the same.”
Mrs. Temple now approached also, bent her head kindly and condescendingly, in token of salutation, with a blush which she could not prevent. The worthy pedlar perfectly understood the blush—a circumstance by which he was a good deal embarrassed himself, and which occasioned him to feel in rather a difficult position. He felt flattered, however, by her condescension; and instead of merely touching his hat to her he pulled it off and stood respectfully uncovered.
“Put on your hat, my friend,” said Temple; “the morning is too cold to stand with a bare head—pray put it on.”
“I know, your honor,” replied the pedlar, “the respect that is due to you both, and especially, sir,” he added, in that tone, and with that peculiar deference, so gratifying to a husband who loves and is proud of his wife—“especially, sir, to her, for I know her family well—as who doesn't!”
“By the way,” said Mrs. Temple, “I think you committed a mistake on the occasion of your last call here?”
“A mistake, ma'am!” said he, with well-feigned surprise—“well, indeed, ma'am, it's not unlikely; for, to tell you the truth, I've a vile mimory—sorra thing a'most but I disremimber, in a day or two after it happens.”