from the occupation of attending to the castors, and scolding her little black boy meantime.

“Wood-house!” cried I, “which way to it?

Run for God’s sake, and fetch something to pry open the door — the axe! — the axe! He’s had a stroke; depend upon it!” — and so saying I was unmethodically rushing up stairs again empty-handed, when Mrs. Hussey interposed the mustard-pot and vinegar-cruet, and the entire castor of her countenance.

“What’s the matter with you, young man?”

“Get the axe! For God’s sake, run for the doctor, some one, while I pry it open!”

“Look here,” said the landlady, quickly putting down the vinegar-cruet, so as to have one hand free;