when his tale was finished.

"Rips, madam," said he; "mere rips. We sold them at Stourbridge
fair, and got but thirteen guineas for the two."

"And--and--the Count, Max; where is he, Brock?" sighed she.

"Whew!" whistled Mr. Brock. "What, hankering after him still? My
dear, he is off to Flanders with his regiment; and, I make no doubt,
there have been twenty Countesses of Galgenstein since your time."

"I don't believe any such thing, sir," said Mrs. Catherine, starting
up very angrily.

"If you did, I suppose you'd laudanum him; wouldn't you?"

"Leave the room, fellow," said the lady. But she recollected
herself speedily again; and, clasping her hands, and looking very
wretched at Brock, at the ceiling, at the floor, at her husband
(from whom she violently turned away her head), she began to cry
piteously: to which tears the Corporal set up a gentle
accompaniment of whistling, as they trickled one after another down
her nose.

I don't think they were tears of repentance; but of regret for the
time when she had her first love, and her fine clothes, and her
white hat and blue feather. Of the two, the Corporal's whistle was
much more innocent than the girl's sobbing: he was a rogue; but a
good-natured old fellow when his humour was not crossed. Surely our
novel-writers make a great mistake in divesting their rascals of all