CHAPTER XIV.

OUR POSTAL ARRANGEMENTS.

Knock at the door.

Complaints made to the President of Happy-Thought Hall of the non-delivery or late delivery of letters, and newspapers.

I promise to see to it.

"George," I say to our servant, "let me see the postman when he comes."

George grins, says Yes. Exit George.

Why does he grin?

Half an hour after this I am in the yard. I hear a shrill piping voice.

It says, "It carnt b' elped n'ow. 'Taint no farlt o' mine. It's them at th' office as is irregylar. I says to them, I do, allus; come now, I says, you ain't to your time, I says, which you carnt say to me all the years as I've been up-a-down on this road, summer nor winter, and no one never lost nothin' nor complainin'. Tell the gendlemun fromme as----" here I step in, and interrupt an old woman talking. I ask. "Has the postman come?"

The old woman with a bag bobs a curtsey, and says,

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I'M THE POSTMAN, SIR."]

And so she is; and has "carried the bag"--only without the dishonesty of a Judas--for the last twenty years. Wonderful old lady. About seventy, and walks twelve miles, at least, in all weathers, every day of her life.

A little girl, her granddaughter, walks by her side, and a sharp terrier accompanies the pair.

Poor old woman! blind.

I am disarmed.

The little girl informs me that "it's the folks at the post office as is wrong."

Generally true.

"Good-bye old Martha, and here's a Christmas-box for you."

"Ar, thank'ee kindly, sir."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER XV.

MRS. BOODELS--BOODELS--HIS GRANDMOTHER'S OBSERVATION--HER FATE SEALED--THE COMEDY--HER DEPOSITION--NEW PROPOSAL--AWKWARD--MILBURD'S RELATION--INVITATION--THE DINNER HOUR--RECOMMENDATION--DECISION.

Being deaf, Mrs. Boodels has, as our friend Captain Byrton expresses it, six to four the best of us. Repartees through an ear-trumpet lose their sting. And then you can't in politeness, and in all respect, sting an old lady of seventy-five.

The other evening Boodels says, blushingly, that some of his friends tell him that he is just the man to write a comedy.

This is repeated to his grandmother through the trumpet.

"Yes," she says, quietly; "I've heard John's friends say that he can write a comedy, and I've heard 'em add that _they hope he won't_."

Since this we've not heard any more of Boodels' comedy. I rather think that he's got it all ready to read to us.

Next morning after this observation of Mrs. Boodels, her grandson comes with Milburd to my room.

Boodels says he thinks his grandmother's a little too old for the work.

I reply that we all like her, and that she's a charming old lady.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "OUT FOR THE DAY."]

Milburd agrees.

Boodels says, rather testily, of course she's all _that_, but we want some one more sprightly, and having to repeat everything to her through the trumpet is tedious.

We own that we should not have liked to have been the first to hazard this objection, but as he _has_ made it himself, why we perhaps on the whole agree with him rather than not.

Boodels is satisfied with this craftily qualified a.s.sent.

"The old girl," he says,--(odd, how she's suddenly come down in his estimation--down to "old girl")--"has told me this morning that the late hours are beginning to tell upon her, and she wants to dine earlier!"

Ah! there we _are_ touched nearly. Alter the dinner hour! Never!

"She's accustomed at home, you see," continues her grandfilial relation, "to dine at one o'clock or thereabouts, and tea at six."

Nursery hours! we couldn't think of it.

"Of course not," returns Boodels; "so I said to her .... She was rather huffed at the idea of my calling them 'nursery hours,' and wanted to know if I meant that she was in her second childhood. In fact," says Boodels, blurting it all out, "there's been a row, and the old girl threatened to take away the Chertons."

"Pooh!" from both of us.

"But if she goes--" commences Boodels, who has a strict and severe sense of propriety.

"If she does," cries Milburd, "look here! I've got it." He subdues his excitement, and proceeds, "I've a letter from the Regniatis."

"Regniatis! let's see," considers Boodels. "They're relations of yours?"

"Yes. Count Regniati, an Italian, and the jolliest fellow in the world"--he adds this as a set-off against his nationality, which may, he evidently thinks, suggest secret societies, daggers, carbonari--"married my Aunt. The Chertons are also some sort of distant connection. At least they often stay with Madame. So that _she'll_ be their chaperone. I'm sure you'll like 'em immensely," he adds, "and the Signor, my uncle, is first-rate." We decide. Abdication of Mrs. Boodels and enthronement of the Regniati dynasty.

"Good," exclaims Boodels. "Then I'll tell my grandmother to-day. I don't want to do anything unpleasant"--we agree with him, such a feeling does him honour--"and I'll take the opportunity of her wanting to go up to an aurist to _congedier_ her. After all the old lady will be much happier away, and I'll tell her that we shall be so glad to see her whenever she likes to turn up again, that is, if the Hall is still going on."