"I wish I had given that poor man something."

"I wish you had, my Lady Crump," would
earnestly say her kind-hearted chaplain.
Many angels visited her unawares, but my
Lady Crump entertained them not, and they
spread their wings arid went to more humble
but more cheerful hosts.

When the summer came with its roses and
lilies, and wreathed the old manor-house
with a living garland of fragrance and bloom,
and the birds twittered and sung the whole
day long, my Lady Crump had her chair
taken to a dark, cool comer of the stately
room, and would fretfully say:

"I wish we had done with the hot summer
weather."

"I wish we had, my Lady Crump," the
starched old butler would answer gravely.

And, when the lake was one sheet of ice,
and the cedar was hung with glittering drops,
while sheets of white snow covered the lawn
like au ermine mantle, my Lady Crump
would muffle herself up to her nose in
costly furs and velvets. She had her
easy-chair wheeled almost into the great fire of
logs, that went roaring half-way up the huge
chimney, and said dolefully:

"I wish we had the summer back again."

"I wish we had, my Lady Crump," would
be sure to come from some one or other.

And so she lived on, day by day, moaning
and pining, never satisfied, till her life drew
near to its close. During her last lingering
illness her incessant weak cry was:

"I wish I had my health again."

And it was as dexterously responded to as
ever by physician and nurse:

"I wish you had, my Lady Crump."

And then Phœbe Budd, going up to the
housekeeper's room to be paid for some
needlework, saw the large sunny window
darkened, and knew that my Lady Crump
lay a-dying. And she told Roger so, as they
both trudged merrily to the fair, to lay out
their long-hoarded savings in furniture, ready
for their wedding: long wished for, and
toiled for early and late, and now coming at
last. They both said mechanically, "Poor
Lady Crump!" and then went on to wonder
if her heir would let them rent the new
cottage or no. And my Lady Clump, lying in
her darkened room, with all the sharpened
senses of death, heard the distant sound of
their merry voices, as they went down the
elm avenue she was to see no more.

"I wish I were in their place! " she faintly
sighed.

"I wish you were, my Lady Crump," said
her starched gentlewoman.

Then my Lady Crump lay long after this,
in a kind of dream, and the pleasant summer
hours flew on till the warm light of the
setting sun lay bright and golden on the rich
green boughs of the cedar hard by. The
loud notes of a bird, singing nearer the casement
than usual, aroused my Lady Crump
so that she moved her thin hand wearily on
the silken counterpane.

"I wish it was night," she moaned, turning
her dim eyes from the warm golden rays that
lay in long lines over her bed.

"I wish it was, my—" half uttered the
gentlewoman, stopped by a look of pain and
horror on the chaplain's face, as he stood
gazing quietly on the wasted features before
him. For he knew that Night was coming—
almost come—with great black shadowy
wings, clouding over the few gleams of the
past—a night that was to know no waking.

Again her lips moved, and he bent over
her to catch the words.

"I wish I had my life to live over again."

"I wish you had, my Lady Crump,"
fervently and solemnly ejaculated the chaplain.

And so she died.

Now this record of my Lady Crump is
taken from authentic sources; and to prove
this, I have just received a communication
from my erudite and ingenious friend, Doctor
Diggemout, F.S.A. He has discovered
the remains of an ancient ballad, fragments
of which have been long current in our
nurseries, and which, from internal evidence,
manifestly chronicles the life and death of
my Lady Crump. It is true that she is there
designated under the ambiguous title of the
Little Old Woman; but anyone studying the
description of her, and her style of living,
must feel convinced that this pseudonym is
very transparent. I will not enter into my
learned friend's dissertation on the value of
ballad lore, as throwing light on the
characteristics and history of a nation, but will, in
support of my assertion, quote the opening
verse:

    There was an old woman,
     And what do you think?
     She lived upon nothing
     But victuals and drink;
     Victuals and drink
     Were the chief of her diet,
     And yet this old woman
     Could never be quiet.

If this proof is not sufficient, take the
closing verse:

    This little old woman,
     On dying, we find,
     Left nothing, except
     A large fortune behind;
     So pity her fate,
     Gentle reader, and say
     Such women are not
     To be found ev'ry day.

And thus arose the proverb; so that,
whenever any one is unreasonable or
discontented, and reiterates dolefully, "I wish I
had such, or such a thing!" he is silenced
by the rejoinder in chorus, of all within
hearing, "I wish you had, my Lady Crump!"
And it is a sad fact, that though the
original is defunct, yet my Lady Crump's