a puzzling question, though the solution is in
reality a simple one enough. How is it that
you, my young friend, who are now engaged
in reading annals of the undecided,
how is it, I ask, that you, who cannot stand
long stories, go every evening and sit (an
example of respectful attention) listening to
the protracted narrations which emanate
from the lips of that outrageous old bore,
Longyarn? Or you, sir, who are old enough
to know better, and are so good a judge of
music that you will not allow your dear
sisters to sing in your presence because they
are not of the force of Madame Alboni, or
Mademoiselle Piccolomini, how is it that you
are content to spend night after night in
raptures under the performance of the elder
Miss Tympanum, who startles the echoes
with an organ like that of a pea-hen, and a
perception of tune such as might be found in
the asylum for the incurably deaf? What is
the reason of these things, I ask? Is it not
because, in the first instance I have
mentioned, the niece of Longyarn, who takes
charge of the old boy's household, has soft
dark eyes and wavy hair, and a complexion
like a rose, only prettier, and in the second,
because the youngest Miss Tympanum, Fanny
by name, has been endowed by nature with
a tight and buxom figure, and is as comely a
little body, from the topmost hair on the
crown of her head to the extreme tip of her
uncommonly pretty foot, as you will meet
with between Berwick-upon-Tweed and the
Lizard Point in Cornwall ? Is it not, in a
word, because you are in love?

Well, and Mr. Pluffers was in love—and
with Miss Anna Smallchange.

Anna Smallchange, the eldest daughter of
our undecided couple, was just eighteen, and
certainly, as far as personal qualifications
went, amply justified the admiration which
her elderly lover bestowed upon her. She
inherited the family indecision, however, and
with it a certain insouciance which, while it
kept her perfectly happy under any
circumstances in which she might be placed, and
caused her to acquiesce in everything that
was proposed to her, rendered it extremely
unlikely that she would respond very ardently
to the passion of Mr. Pluffers, or indeed of
any other Mister that wore a head.

Mr. Pluffers was in love, then,—and it was
because Mr. Pluffers was in love, that he
endured as he did the trying eccentricities
which occasionally showed themselves in his
landlady's conduct. Thus, when, as would
happen sometimes, Mrs. Smallchange had so
engaged the servants in executing—I was
going to say—her orders, but, on reflection, her
counter orders, appears a fitter term—when
the servants had been so completely occupied
all the morning in not fulfilling their directions,
that Mr. Pluffers came down to breakfast,
and found neither fire nor tea-things
prepared—the expected storm might, I say,
at such times, be always averted by the
simple process of sending Miss Anna up-stairs
with the breakfast things. Upon
which occasion she would arrange them with
such a winning gracefulness, and, dropping
down upon her knees, and putting on a pair
of gloves and an apron, would insist upon
lighting the fire herself, with such a mutinous
and pleasant air, that other fires were lit
besides that within the grate, and the heart
of Mr. Pluifers, well fortified as one would
have expected by years, obesity, and business
habits, was so completely reached by Miss
Anna's charms, that, though mentally resolving
that the first step in his married life
should be to step out of his present place of
abode, he yet determined that he would not
leave Mrs. Smallchange's roof alone. And
so, one morning, when Miss Anna dropped
on her knees before the fire, it happened
that Mr. Pluffers might have been observed
—had anybody been present besides the cat—
to drop upon his knees before Miss Anna,
and then and there to make her an offer of
his hand and heart.

"I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Pluffers,"
said the young lady, as the excellent gentleman,
having captured one of her hands,
proceeded to kiss the somewhat coally glove
which encased it, and which in his rapture
he was too agitated to perceive; " I'm sure
I don't know— lor!—what a smudge you've
got upon your nose—here, let me wipe it
off, with my apron— I'm sure I don't know,
but I'll speak to Mama about it."

Well, Mama was spoken to about it, and
Papa, too, and certainly if Miss Smallchange
was uncertain what to say about it, it was
quite clear that both Mr. and Mrs. S. were
still more completely incapable of forming an
opinion on the subject. So that when Mr.
Pluffers returned from his place of business—
where he had made so many mistakes that
the head official had remarked to one of the
shareholders that Pluffers was getting old,
he found that, so far from his fate being
finally decided, things were very much where
he had left them, in the morning.

It was then that that remarkable series of
letters, known so widely (in the polite circles)
as the Pluffers correspondence, commenced.
It begins with a note from Mr. Pluffers, who,
unable to touch food in his present condition
of suspense, writes as follows:

[No. 1.]

—- STREET, First-floor, April 31st, 18—.

Mr. Pluffers presents his compliments to Mr.
Smallchange, and begs to be informed, per present
messenger, whether Mr. and Mrs. S. have come to any
decision upon a subject nearly concerning Mr. P.'s
peace of mind.

[No. 2.]

—- STREET, Parlours, April 31st, 18—.

Mrs. Smallchange lias been in consultation with
Mr. Smallchange, upon the subject mentioned in Mr.
Pluffers' letter, all day, but they are unable, at present,
to give a final answer.