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stay and put on a shawl.—(To Dickenson.) Bring me that shawl from the next room.—(Charville gives a sign to Dickenson, and goes for the shawl himself.) Surely, Dickenson, you don't believe that it can possibly be Mr. Charville: you would be more alarmed if you thought so. There is some trick in this: I know it by that smile on your face. (Dickenson retires without answering, and Charville re-enters with the shawl.) That is a lace shawl, foolish fellow, bring me the other. That would keep nobody warm, and be torn on the bushes besides.

CHARVILLE. (rending the shawl in anger, and speaking in his natural voice).

And let it be torn into a thousand pieces! A bit of paltry lace, or any thing, is of more importance to you than the fate of your miserable husband.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

Ha! is it you?

CHARVILLE.

Ay, you may start as if you saw an apparition from another world.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

Nay, there is nothing like the other world about you. That coat and wig, and that ludicrous visage of yours, belong neither to angel nor demon, and are altogether earthly, I assure you; much more an object of laughter than of