where, spite the thumps and entreaties of a distracted parent, we were all
engaged in overlaying a couple of remarkably promising twins! We can say no
more on this frightful subject. But--

"Once again we met!"

Our pride wanted cutting, and fate appeared determined to perform the
operation with a jagged saw!

Tom Racket died! His disease was infectious, and we had been the last
person to call upon him, consequently we were mournful. Thick-coming
fancies brooded in our brain--all things conspired against us; the day was
damp and wretched--the church-bells emulated each other in announcing the
mortalities of earth's bipeds--each _toll'd_ its tale of death. We thought
upon our "absent friend." A funeral approached. We were still more gloomy.
Could it be his? if so, what were his thoughts? Could ghosts but speak,
what would he say? The coffin was coeval with us--sheets were rubicund
compared to our cheeks. A low deep voice sounded from its very bowels--the
words were addressed to us--they were, "Take no notice; it's the first
time; it will soon be over!"

"Will it?" we groaned.

"Yes. I'm glad you know me. I'll tell you more when I come back."

"Gracious powers! do you expect to return?"

"Certainly! We'll have a screw together yet! There's room for us both in my
place. I'll make you comfortable."