sir--when I tell you, that I have lost my heart to--a Jewess?"

"Berenice!" cried I.

"Impossible!" cried my mother. "How came you to see her?"

"That's not for you to know yet; but first, young gentleman, you who are
hanging on tenter-hooks, you must hang there a little longer."

"As long as you please, my dear father," said I.

"_Your dear father_!--ay, I'm very dear to you now, because you are in
hopes, sir, I shall turn fool, and break my vow into the bargain; but I am
not come to _that_ yet, my good sir--I have some consistency."

"Oh! never mind your consistency, for mercy's sake, Mr. Harrington," said
my mother, "only tell us your story, for I really am dying to hear it, and
I am so weak."

"Ring the bell for dinner," said my father, "for Mrs. Harrington's so weak,
I'll keep my story till after dinner." My mother protested she was quite
strong, and we both held my father fast, insisting--he being in such
excellent humour and spirits that we might insist--insisting upon his
telling his story before he should have any dinner.

"Where was I?" said he.

"You know best," said my mother; "you said you had lost your heart to a
Jewess, and Harrington exclaimed _Berenice!_ and that's all I've heard
yet."