"I'm not going to contradict you, Caudle; you may say what you like--
but I think I ought to know my own feelings better than you. I don't
wish to upbraid you neither; I'm too ill for that; but it's not
getting wet in thin shoes,--oh, no! it's my mind, Caudle, my mind,
that's killing me. Oh, yes! gruel, indeed you think gruel will cure
a woman of anything; and you know, too, how I hate it. Gruel can't
reach what I suffer; but, of course, nobody is ever ill but yourself.
Well, I--I didn't mean to say that; but when you talk in that way
about thin shoes, a woman says, of course, what she doesn't mean; she
can't help it. You've always gone on about my shoes; when I think
I'm the fittest judge of what becomes me best. I dare say,--'twould
be all the same to you if I put on ploughman's boots; but I'm not
going to make a figure of my feet, I can tell you. I've never got
cold with the shoes I've worn yet, and 'tisn't likely I should begin
now.

"No, Caudle; I wouldn't wish to say anything to accuse you: no,
goodness knows, I wouldn't make you uncomfortable for the world,--but
the cold I've got, I got ten years ago. I have never said anything
about it--but it has never left me. Yes; ten years ago the day
before yesterday.

"HOW CAN I RECOLLECT IT?

"Oh, very well: women remember things you never think of: poor
souls! they've good cause to do so. Ten years ago, I was sitting up
for you,--there now, I'm not going to say anything to vex you, only
do let me speak: ten years ago, I was waiting for you, and I fell
asleep, and the fire went out, and when I woke I found I was sitting
right in the draught of the keyhole. That was my death, Caudle,