"What! Mrs. Happy Lot? Do you call her a monument of
wrath? Well, well, if that don't beat all, Minister. If
you had a been a-tyin' of the night-cap last night I
shouldn't a wondered at your talkin' at that pace. But
to call that dear little woman, Mrs. Happy Lot, that
dancin', laughin' tormentin', little critter, a monument
of wrath, beats all to immortal smash."

"Why who are you a-talkin' of, Sam?"

"Why, Mrs. Happy Lot, the wife of the Honourable Cranbery
Lot, of Umbagog, to be sure. Who did you think I was
a-talkin' of?"

"Well, I thought you was a-talkin' of--of--ahem--of
subjects too serious to be talked of in that manner; but
I did you wrong, Sam; I did you injustice. Give me your
hand, my boy. It's better for me to mistake and apologize,
than for you to sin and repent. I don't think I ever
heard of Mr. Lot, of Umbagog, or of his wife either. Sit
down here, and tell me the story, for 'with thee conversing,
I forget all time.'"

"Well, Minister," said Mr. Slick, "I'll tell you the ins
and outs of it; and a droll story it is too. Miss Lot
was the darter of Enoch Mosher, the rich miser of Goshen;
as beautiful a little critter too, as ever slept in
shoe-leather. She looked for all the world like one of
the Paris fashion prints, for she was a parfect pictur',