grape, to the grape that made the wine, to the sun that ripened it, and to the merchant who adulterated it!

— and being fast asleep in a corner of the carriage, I rode by the side and talked to Dora. She admired my horse and patted him — oh, what a dear little hand it looked upon a horse! — and her shawl would not keep right, and now and then I drew it round her with my arm; and I even fancied that Jip began to see how it was, and to understand that he must make up his mind to be friends with me.

That sagacious Miss Mills, too; that amiable, though quite used up, recluse; that little patriarch of something less than twenty, who had done with the world, and mustn’t on any account have the slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory awakened; what a kind thing she did!