 | The fiend's delight |  |
A Comforter.
William Bunker had paid a fine of two hundred
dollars for beating his wife. After getting his
receipt he went moodily home and seated himself
and melancholy demeanour, the good wife approached
and tenderly inquired the cause. “It's
a delicate subject, dear,” said he, with love-light in
his eyes; “let's talk about something good to
eat.”
Then, with true wifely instinct she sought
to cheer him up with pleasing prattle of a new
bonnet he had promised her. “Ah! darling,” he
sighed, absently picking up the fire-poker and
turning it in his hands, “let us change the subject.”
Then his soul's idol chirped an inspiring
ballad, kissed him on the top of his head, and
sweetly mentioned that the dressmaker had sent
in her bill. “Let us talk only of love,” returned
he, thoughtfully rolling up his dexter sleeve.
And so she spoke of the vine-enfolded cottage
in which she fondly hoped they might soon sip together
the conjugal sweets. William became rigidly
erect, a look not of earth was in his face, his
breast heaved, and the fire-poker quivered with
emotion. William felt deeply. “Mine own,” said
the good woman, now busily irrigating a mass
of snowy dough for the evening meal, “do you
know that there is not a bite of meat in the
house?”
It is a cold, unlovely truth—a sad, heart-sickening
conscientious novelist. William repaid all this
affectionate solicitude—all this womanly devotion,
all this trust, confidence, and abnegation in a
manner that needs not be particularly specified.
A short, sharp curve in the middle of that iron
fire-poker is eloquent of a wrong redressed.
| The fiend's delight | |