quite ignorant of at another. I recall, sir, that on that occasion you went so far as to say you were actually apprehensive of Miss Gradgrind.”

“Your memory does me more honour than my insignificance deserves. I availed myself of your obliging hints to correct my timidity, and it is unnecessary to add that they were perfectly accurate. Mrs. Sparsit’s talent for—in fact for anything requiring accuracy—with a combination of strength of mind—and Family—is too habitually developed to admit of any question.” He was almost falling asleep over this compliment, it took him so long to get through and his mind wandered so much in the course of its execution.

“You found Miss Gradgrind—I really cannot call her Mrs. Bounderby; it’s very absurd of me—as youthful as I described her?” asked Mrs. Sparsit, sweetly.

“You drew her portrait perfectly,” said Mr. Harthouse. “Presented her dead image.”

“Very engaging, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, causing her mittens slowly to revolve over one another.

“Highly so.”

“It used to be considered,” said Mrs. Sparsit, “that Miss Gradgrind was wanting in animation, but I confess she appears to me considerably and strikingly improved in that respect. Aye, and indeed here is Mr. Bounderby!” cried Mrs. Sparsit, nodding her head a great many times, as if she had been talking and thinking of no one else. “How do you find yourself this morning, sir? Pray let us see you cheerful, sir.”

Now, these persistent assuagements of his misery, and lightenings of his load, had by this time begun to have the effect of making Mr. Bounderby softer than usual towards Mrs. Sparsit, and harder than usual to most other people from his wife downward. So, when Mrs. Sparsit said with forced lightness of heart, “You want your breakfast, sir, but I dare say Miss Gradgrind will soon be here to preside at the table,” Mr. Bounderby replied, “If I waited to be taken care of by my wife, ma’am, I believe you know pretty well I should wait till Doomsday, so I’ll trouble you to take charge of the teapot.” Mrs. Sparsit complied, and assumed her old position at table.

This again made the excellent woman vastly sentimental. She was so humble withal that when Louisa appeared she rose, protesting she never could think of sitting in that place under existing circumstances, often as she had had the honour of making Mr. Bounderby’s breakfast before Mrs. Gradgrind—she begged pardon, she meant to say Miss Bounderby—she hoped to be excused, but she really could not get it right yet, though she trusted to become familiar with it by-and-by—had assumed her present position. It was only, she observed, because Miss Gradgrind happened to be a little late, and Mr. Bounderby’s time was so very precious, and she knew it of old to be so essential that he should breakfast to the moment, that she had taken the liberty of complying with his request—long as his will had been a law to her.

“There! Stop where you are, ma’am,” said Mr. Bounderby, “stop where you are! Mrs. Bounderby will be very glad to be relieved of the trouble, I believe.”

“Don’t say that, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, almost with severity, “because that is very unkind to Mrs. Bounderby. And to be unkind is not to be you, sir.”

“You may set your mind at rest, ma’am.—You can take it very quietly, can’t you, Loo?” said Mr. Bounderby, in a blustering way to his wife.

“Of course. It is of no moment. Why should it be of any importance to me?”

“Why should it be of any importance to anyone, Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am?” said Mr. Bounderby, swelling with a sense of slight. “You attach too much importance to these things, ma’am. By George, you’ll be corrupted in some of your notions here. You are old-fashioned, ma’am. You are behind Tom Gradgrind’s children’s time.”

“What is the matter with you?” asked Louisa, coldly surprised. “What has given you offence?”

“Offence!” repeated Bounderby. “Do you suppose if there was any offence given me, I shouldn’t name it, and request to have it corrected? I am a straightforward man, I believe. I don’t go beating about for side-winds.”

“I suppose no one ever had occasion to think you too diffident, or too delicate,” Louisa answered him composedly: “I have never made that objection to you, either as a child or as a woman. I don’t understand what you would have.”

“Have?” returned Mr. Bounderby. “Nothing. Otherwise, don’t you, Loo Bounderby, know thoroughly well that I, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, would have it?”

She looked at him, as he struck the