Mr. Blows endeavoured to conceal his gratification beneath a mask of
surliness. "Waste o' money," he growled, and stooping to the cask drew
himself an-other glass of beer.

"Some o' the gentry sent their carriages to follow," said Mrs. Blows,
sitting down and clasping her hands in her lap.

"I know one or two that 'ad a liking for me," said Mr. Blows, almost
blushing.

"And to think that it's all a mistake," continued his wife. "But I
thought it was you; it was dressed like you, and your cap was found near
it."

"H'm," said Mr. Blows; "a pretty mess you've been and made of it. Here's
people been giving two pounds for wreaths and turning up with brass bands
and banners because they thought it was me, and it's all been wasted."

"It wasn't my fault," said his wife. "Little Billy Clements came running
'ome the day you went away and said 'e'd fallen in the water, and you'd
gone in and pulled 'im out. He said 'e thought you was drownded, and
when you didn't come 'ome I naturally thought so too. What else could I
think?"

Mr. Blows coughed, and holding his glass up to the light regarded it with
a preoccupied air.

"They dragged the river," resumed his wife, "and found the cap, but they
didn't find the body till nine weeks afterward. There was a inquest at
the Peal o' Bells, and I identified you, and all that grand funeral was