done, myself. You had better leave him where he is. He can't live
long.'

'It's the only subject,' said Tugby, bringing the butter-scale down
upon the counter with a crash, by weighing his fist on it, 'that
we've ever had a word upon; she and me; and look what it comes to!
He's going to die here, after all. Going to die upon the premises.
Going to die in our house!'

'And where should he have died, Tugby?' cried his wife.

'In the workhouse,' he returned. 'What are workhouses made for?'

'Not for that,' said Mrs. Tugby, with great energy. 'Not for that!
Neither did I marry you for that. Don't think it, Tugby. I won't
have it. I won't allow it. I'd be separated first, and never see
your face again. When my widow's name stood over that door, as it
did for many years: this house being known as Mrs.
Chickenstalker's far and wide, and never known but to its honest
credit and its good report: when my widow's name stood over that
door, Tugby, I knew him as a handsome, steady, manly, independent
youth; I knew her as the sweetest-looking, sweetest-tempered girl,
eyes ever saw; I knew her father (poor old creetur, he fell down
from the steeple walking in his sleep, and killed himself), for the
simplest, hardest-working, childest-hearted man, that ever drew the
breath of life; and when I turn them out of house and home, may
angels turn me out of Heaven. As they would! And serve me right!'

Her old face, which had been a plump and dimpled one before the
changes which had come to pass, seemed to shine out of her as she