The dining-room windows were open, and his mother was softly pacing on the lawn outside, while little Laura was looking at the sunset.

The sweet fresh notes of the boy's voice came to the widow.
It cheered her kind heart to hear him sing.
"You--you are taking too much wine, Arthur," Mr.Smirke said softly--"you are exciting yourself." "No," said Pen, "women give headaches, but this don't.

Fill your glass, old fellow, and let's drink--I say, Smirke, my boy--let's drink to her--your her, I mean, not mine, for whom I swear I'll care no more--no, not a penny--no, not a fig--no, not a glass of wine.

Tell us about the lady, Smirke; I've often seen you sighing about her." "Oh!" said Smirke--and his beautiful cambric shirt front and glistening studs heaved with the emotion which agitated his gentle and suffering bosom.
"Oh--what a sigh!" Pen cried, growing very hilarious; "fill, my boy, and drink the toast, you can't refuse a toast, no gentleman refuses a toast.

Here's her health, and good luck to you, and may she soon be Mrs.
Smirke." "Do you say so ?" Smirke said, all of a tremble.