in arm with thee at Ranelagh or Vauxhall. Nay, man, never be downcast; if I laugh at thee, it is only to make thee look a little merrier thyself. Why, thou lookest like a book of my grandfather's, called 'Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy;' and faith, a shabbier bound copy of it I never saw."
"These jests are a little hard," said Paul, struggling between anger and an attempt to smile; and then recollecting his late literary occupations, and the many extracts he had taken from "Gleanings of the Belles Lettres," in order to impart elegance to his criticisms, he threw out his hand theatrically, and spouted with a solemn face—
"Of all the griefs that harass the distrest,
Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest!"
"Well now, prithee forgive me," said Long Ned, composing his features; "and just tell me what you have been doing the last two months."
"Slashing and plastering!" said Paul, with conscious pride!
"Slashing and what! the boy's mad,—what do you mean, Paul?"
