of bad health; whatever they are, they must be prodigies. Mr.
Whiffler must have to describe at his office such excruciating
agonies constantly undergone by his eldest boy, as nobody else's
eldest boy ever underwent; or he must be able to declare that there
never was a child endowed with such amazing health, such an
indomitable constitution, and such a cast-iron frame, as his child.
His children must be, in some respect or other, above and beyond
the children of all other people. To such an extent is this
feeling pushed, that we were once slightly acquainted with a lady
and gentleman who carried their heads so high and became so proud
after their youngest child fell out of a two-pair-of-stairs window
without hurting himself much, that the greater part of their
friends were obliged to forego their acquaintance. But perhaps
this may be an extreme case, and one not justly entitled to be
considered as a precedent of general application.

If a friend happen to dine in a friendly way with one of these
couples who dote upon their children, it is nearly impossible for
him to divert the conversation from their favourite topic.
Everything reminds Mr. Whiffler of Ned, or Mrs. Whiffler of Mary
Anne, or of the time before Ned was born, or the time before Mary
Anne was thought of. The slightest remark, however harmless in
itself, will awaken slumbering recollections of the twins. It is
impossible to steer clear of them. They will come uppermost, let
the poor man do what he may. Ned has been known to be lost sight
of for half an hour, Dick has been forgotten, the name of Mary Anne
has not been mentioned, but the twins will out. Nothing can keep
down the twins.

'It's a very extraordinary thing, Saunders,' says Mr. Whiffler to