"Miss Mary," says I,--for my heart yurned to the poor gal, as she
came sobbing and miserable down stairs: "Miss Mary," says I, "if I
might make so bold, here's master's room empty, and I know where
the cold bif and pickles is." "Oh, Charles!" said she, nodding her
head sadly, "I'm too retched to have any happytite." And she flung
herself on a chair, and began to cry fit to bust.

At this moment who should come in but my master. I had taken hold
of Miss Mary's hand, somehow, and do believe I should have kist it,
when, as I said, Haltamont made his appearance. "What's this?"
cries he, lookin at me as black as thunder, or as Mr. Phillips as
Hickit, in the new tragedy of MacBuff.

"It's only Miss Mary, sir," answered I.

"Get out, sir," says he, as fierce as posbil; and I felt somethink
(I think it was the tip of his to) touching me behind, and found
myself, nex minit, sprawling among the wet flannings and buckets
and things.

The people from up stairs came to see what was the matter, as I was
cussin and crying out. "It's only Charles, ma," screamed out Miss
Betsy.

"Where's Mary?" says Mrs. Shum, from the sofy.

"She's in Master's room, miss," said I.

"She's in the lodger's room, ma," cries Miss Shum, heckoing me.