'You have the fever on you still, or you would not dream of such things.' 'But I do dream of her--every night, confound her!' Mr.Dunborough said; and he groaned like a love-sick boy.

'Oh, hang it, Tommy,' he continued plaintively, 'she has a kind of look in her eyes when she is pleased--that makes you think of dewy mornings when you were a boy and went fishing.' 'It _is_ the fever!' Mr.Thomasson said, with conviction.

'It is heavy on him still.' Then, more seriously, 'My very dear sir,' he continued, 'do you know that if you had your will you would be miserable within the week.

Remember-- ''Tis tumult, disorder, 'tis loathing and hate; Caprice gives it birth, and contempt is its fate!' 'Gad, Tommy!' said Mr.Dunborough, aghast with admiration at the aptness of the lines.

'That is uncommon clever of you! But I shall do it all the same,' he continued, in a tone of melancholy foresight.