Hockit, the wine-merchant, pipe of claret in the docks, vintage of
17--. Bravo! all goes smooth for Viscount Innisdale! Pish! from my
damnable wife! What a pill for my lordship! What says she?"

DAWLISH, DEVONSHIRE.
You have not, my dearest Richard, answered my letters for months. I
do not, however, presume to complain of your silence; I know well that
you have a great deal to occupy your time, both in business and
pleasure. But one little line, dear Richard,--one little line, surely
that is not too much now and then. I am most truly sorry to trouble
you again about money; and you must know that I strive to be as saving
as possible; ("Pish--curse the woman; sent her twenty pounds three
months ago!") but I really am so distressed, and the people here are
so pressing; and, at all events, I cannot bear the thought of your
wife being disgraced. Pray, forgive me, Richard, and believe how
painful it is in me to say so much. I know you will answer this! and,
oh, do, do tell me how you are.

Ever your affectionate wife, CAROLINE CRAUFORD.

"Was there ever poor man so plagued? Where's my note book? Mem.--
Send Car. to-morrow 20 pounds to last her the rest of the year. Mem.
--Send Mother H----, 100 pounds. Mem.--Pay Hockit's bill, 830 pounds.
Bless me, what shall I do with Viscountess Innisdale? Now, if I were
not married, I would be son-in-law to a duke. Mem.--Go down to
Dawlish, and see if she won't die soon. Healthy situation, I fear,--
devilish unlucky,--must be changed. Mem.--Swamps in Essex. Who's
that?"

A knock at the door disturbed Mr. Crauford in his meditations. He