"Mr. Sad-Sadler," replied Mrs. Hatchard, almost strangling him. "He made
me kneel in front o' him and keep touching the floor with my head."

The chair-bedstead shook in sympathy with Mr. Hatchard's husbandly
emotion.

"Well, it's nothing to do with me," he said at last.

"He's mad," said his wife, in a tense whisper; "stark staring mad. He
says I'm his favorite wife, and he made me stroke his forehead."

The bed shook again.

"I don't see that I have any right to interfere," said Mr. Hatchard,
after he had quieted the bedstead. "He's your lodger."

"You're my husband," said Mrs. Hatchard. "Ho!" said Mr. Hatchard.
"You've remembered that, have you?"

"Yes, Alfred," said his wife.

"And are you sorry for all your bad behavior?" demanded Mr. Hatchard.

Mrs. Hatchard hesitated. Then a clatter of fire-irons downstairs moved
her to speech.

"Ye-yes," she sobbed.

"And you want me to take you back?" queried the generous Mr. Hatchard.