"This comes of marrying one beneath me in
station," she said.

Now she had never said that to me before;
but I knew now that it had been buried in her
breast, and that she had been thinking of it for
years.

"Oh, Maria," I said. "I never thought that
you would have thrown that up in my face. If
you do come of a high family," I said, "love's a
leveller."

"Love!" she says; "do you dare to talk to
me of love, false one?"

"I arn't a false one, Maria; I'm your true
loving 'usband," I said.

"The handkercher!" she said, holding it up
like an accusing spectre. "Go to your duchess,
go!" And with that she flounced out of the
room, and sat half the night on the stairs a
weeping and sobbing and beating the boards
with her heels, so that nobody could get a wink
of sleep in the 'ouse.

When she come up in the morning, she was
as cold as a frog, but quiet. She never spoke all
breakfast-time; but, after I had blacked my face,
and just as I was cutting a paper collar, she
rises, and draws herself up to her full height,
and says:

"Joseph," she says, "I'll never live under the
same roof with you no more. I'll have a divorce."

"Very well," I says; "if that's your temper,
have a divorce. Only it strikes me that it won't
run to it, unless you have a good deal more
money than we've got," I said.

All I had, sir, was one-and-fivepence-halfpenny,
and though I knew that divorces had
been much reduced in price, I didn't think they
had come down so low as that.

"Don't you think," I said, "it would be
cheaper to refer it to arbitration? I don't mind
standing by what your pa says."

"Oh, I dare say," she said; "you and pa
are very thick, because you give him bacca. I
choose ma."

"Very well," I said; "you have ma and I'll
have pa."

So that was agreed upon, and Maria put on
her bonnet and went off for her ma, and I,
without waiting to wash the black off my face,
went across to the workhouse for the old man.

The first thing the old gentleman said, on
getting outside the gates, was, "Ain't we going
to take a cab, Joseph?"

"No, father," I says, "cabs is for weddings;
but it's divorce that's on to-day; and under
those circumstances you don't feel inclined to
go to the expense."

The old gentleman being rather weak on the
pins, it took us some time to get down to the
Brill, where I lodged, and Maria and her ma
were there waiting for us.

"Here you are," I said; "here's my referee."

"And here's mine," said Maria, pointing to
her ma, who, having her sleeves up, had
evidently been summoned away in the midst of her
washing.

"Now," I said, "go ahead."

Well, sir, of course Maria had no facts to
go upon, except that she had found the
handkercher in my pocket. I tore the case for the
prosecution all to tatters, and Maria hadn't got
a rag to stand upon, except the handkercher.

"Now," I says, "pa, what's your verdict?"

"Not guilty," he says, without leaving the
box.

"Hear, hear," I says. "And what's yours,
ma?"

"Well," she says, talking quite proud, just
like her daughter, both having been at boarding-
school, "I should like to see the handkercher."

Maria showed her the handkercher.

"Why," she says, "it's the finest cambric,
with real lace round it; it's worth half a guinea,
if it's worth a penny."

"Very well, then, mum, what do you say?"

"Well," replied Maria's ma, "I say pawn it."

"Them's my sentiments exactly," I says;
"pawn it, and let's have rumpsteak and onions
for dinner."

Maria vowed that her own flesh and blood
had turned against her; but when I brought in
a quartern of rum and a pint and a half of old
ale, and she'd had a drop, she came round a
little, and at last agreed to go out and pawn the
handkercher. She got seven-and-sixpence on
it; and we had a nice bit of hot dinner, and the
old gentleman got quite convivial and, sang
Away with Melancholy, and we passed as pleasant
an afternoon, sir, as I'd wish to see.

Arter that, happiness, sir, was restored to my
domestic hearth; only I couldn't help thinking
that things was a deal too pleasant to last.
Maria was all sugar, never scolded, never was
jealous, and was always singing. I couldn't make
it out at all. Formerly she had despised my
line of hart, and called my songs nonsense and
rubbish. But now she was a singing of them
every day, and beautiful she sang them too;
especially Lucy Neal, and the Old Folks at
Home, which was all the go then. I never
thought that she had such talent.

But what's her little game? I thought to
myself. She's dropped the jealousy and she's
dropped the words, and though she doesn't say
much, she's always a singing, and two or three
times when I come in unexpected, I caught her
putting away some finery that she'd been making,
as if she didn't want me to see it. When I
caught her hiding that finery, sir, I thought
of the young man at the tripe-shop. I'll tell
you how that was, sir. One day, when we had
half a peck of peas and Maria was shelling them,
she found a shuck with nine peas in it.

"I'll put that over the door," she said, "and
the first man as comes in will be my second
'usband."

It was just after we had had a noise about my
stopping out late that she said this. Well, sir,
the first person as come in was the young man
from the tripe-shop. And Maria says to him,
right before me,

"George," she says, "you are destined to be
my second 'usband."

I don't mind confessing, sir, that I had a
touch of the green-eyed monster myself. One