Another chair, ma'am; put up his poor legs.

What age is he, ma'am ?--Sixty-eight! Too old to bleed.

Thank you.

How is it, sir?
Poorly, to be sure will be comfortable presently--faintish still?
Soon put all to rights." "Tray! Tray! Where's my dog, Mrs.Boxer ?" "Lord, sir, what do you want with your dog now?
He is in the back-yard." "And what business has my dog in the back-yard ?" almost screamed the sufferer, in accents that denoted no diminution of vigour.

"I thought as soon as my back was turned my dog would be ill-used! Why did I go without my dog?
Let in my dog directly, Mrs.Boxer!" "All right, you see, sir," said the apothecary, turning to Beaufort--"no cause for alarm--very comforting that little passion--does him good--sets one's mind easy.