Caudle,--not the least. Still, I don't think I could lie at peace in
my grave if--well, I won't say anything more about her; but you know
what I mean.

"I think dear mother would keep house beautifully for you when I'm
gone. Well, love, I won't talk in that way if you desire it. Still,
I know I've a dreadful cold; though I won't allow it for a minute to
be the shoes--certainly not. I never would wear 'em thick, and you
know it, and they never gave me a cold yet. No, dearest Caudle, it's
ten years ago that did it; not that I'll say a syllable of the matter
to hurt you. I'd die first.

"Mother, you see, knows all your little ways; and you wouldn't get
another wife to study you and pet you up as I've done--a second wife
never does; it isn't likely she should. And after all, we've been
very happy. It hasn't been my fault if we've ever had a word or two,
for you couldn't help now and then being aggravating; nobody can help
their tempers always,--especially men. Still we've been very happy,
haven't we, Caudle?

"Good-night. Yes,--this cold does tear me to pieces; but for all
that, it isn't the shoes. God bless you, Caudle; no,--it's NOT the
shoes. I won't say it's the key-hole; but again I say, it's not the
shoes. God bless you once more--But never say it's the shoes."


The above significant sketch is a correct copy of a drawing from the
hand of Caudle at the end of this Lecture. It can hardly, we think,
be imagined that Mrs. Caudle, during her fatal illness, never mixed
admonishment with soothing as before; but such fragmentary Lectures