Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. As she approached, the carpenter's wife eyed her from head to foot, in the hope of finding something in her person or apparel to quarrel with. There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. But he had been forewarned by his great-nephew. Ireton and Langley had returned from a second unsuccessful search; Marvel had come thither to bid good-night to Mrs. “There’s no one here except me. Saw the villain through the keyhole.
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