I remain, my dear niece, yours sincerely, "Joshua Tufton." "It is cruel," Mrs.Marryat sobbed, "cruel to take you away from us, and send you to India, where you will most likely die of fever, or be killed by a tiger, or stabbed by one of those horrid natives, in a fortnight." "Not so bad as that, Mother, I hope," Charlie said sympathizingly, although he could not repress a smile; "other people have managed to live out there, and have come back safe." "Yes," Mrs.Marryat said, sobbing; "I know how you will come back.

A little, yellow, shrivelled up old man with no liver, and a dreadful temper, and a black servant.

I know what it will be." This time Charlie could not help laughing.
"That's looking too far ahead altogether, Mother.

You take the two extremes.

If I don't die in a fortnight, I am to live to be a shrivelled old man.