week; he said he did not wish me to decide in a hurry: he has given me
till this day week; I wish it were this day ten years--"

"This day week, then," says Algy, walking about with his hands in his
pockets, and smiling to himself, "we may hope to see him return in
triumph in a blue frock-coat, with the ring and the parson: at that age
one has no time to lose."

"Haste to the wedding!" cries the Brat at the top of his voice, seizing
me by both hands, and forcing me to execute an uncouth war-dance, in
unwilling celebration of my approaching nuptials.

"I hope that there will be lots of almonds in the cake!" says Bobby,
gluttonously.




CHAPTER VII.


The week's reprieve has ended; my Judgment Day has come. Never, never,
surely, did seven days race so madly past, tumbling over each other's
heels. Even Sunday--Sunday, which mostly contains at least forty-eight
hours--has gone like a flash. Morning service, afternoon service, good
looks, sermon to the servants, supper, they all run into one another
like dissolving views. For the first time in my life, my sleep is
broken. I fall asleep in a fever of irresolution. I awake in one. I walk
about in one. I feed the jackdaw in one. I box Bobby's ears in one. My
appetite (oh, portent!) flags. In intense excitement, who can eat yards