ould woman?" she asks, insinuatingly. "Couldn't yez be afther payin' me
the bit av a schore I've got agin ye?"

Mr. BUMSTEAD opens his eyes reproachfully, and wishes to know how she
can dare talk about money matters to an organist who, at almost any
moment, may be obliged to see a Chinaman hired in his place on account
of cheapness?

"Could the haythen crayture play, thin?" she asks, wonderingly.

"Thairvairimitative," he tells her;--"Cookwashiron' n' eatbirdsnests."

"An' vote would they, honey?"

"Yesh--'f course--thairvairimitative, I tell y'," snarls he:
"do'tcheapzdirt."

"Is it vote chaper they would, the haythen naygurs, than daycint,
hardworkin' white min?" she asks, excitedly.

"Yesh. Chinesecheaplabor," he says, bitterly.

"Och, hone!" cries the woman, in anguish; "and f'hat's the poor to do
then, honey?"

"Gowest; go'nfarm!" sobs Mr. BUMSTEAD, shedding tears. "I'd go m'self if
a-hadn't lost dear-er-rerelative.--Nephew'n' umbrella."

"Saint PAYTHER! an' f'hat's that?"