"You needn't for to cry over her, young man," said Mrs. Berry. "I wanted
for to drink their right healths by their right names, and then go about
my day's work, and I do hope you won't keep me."

Ripton stood bolt upright at her words.

"You do?" he said, and filling a bumper he with cheerfully vinous
articulation and glibness of tongue proposed the health of Richard and
Lucy Feverel, of Raynham Abbey! and that mankind should not require an
expeditious example of the way to accept the inspiring toast, he drained
his bumper at a gulp. It finished him. The farthing rushlight of his
reason leapt and expired. He tumbled to the sofa and there stretched.

Some minutes subsequent to Ripton's signalization of his devotion to the
bridal pair, Mrs. Berry's maid entered the room to say that a gentleman
was inquiring below after the young gentleman who had departed, and found
her mistress with a tottering wineglass in her hand, exhibiting every
symptom of unconsoled hysterics. Her mouth gaped, as if the fell
creditor had her by the swallow. She ejaculated with horrible exultation
that she had been and done it, as her disastrous aspect seemed to
testify, and her evident, but inexplicable, access of misery induced the
sympathetic maid to tender those caressing words that were all Mrs. Berry
wanted to go off into the self-caressing fit without delay; and she had
already given the preluding demoniac ironic outburst, when the maid
called heaven to witness that the gentleman would hear her; upon which
Mrs. Berry violently controlled her bosom, and ordered that he should be
shown upstairs instantly to see her the wretch she was. She repeated the
injunction.

The maid did as she was told, and Mrs. Berry, wishing first to see