I dreadful. To Dora!

“Don’t talk about being poor, and working hard!” said Dora, nestling closer to me. “Oh, don’t, don’t!”

“My dearest love,” said I, “the crust well-earned—”

“Oh, yes; but I don’t want to hear any more about crusts!” said Dora. “And Jip must have a mutton-chop every day at twelve, or he’ll die!”

I was charmed with her childish, winning way. I fondly explained to Dora that Jip should have his mutton- chop with his accustomed regularity. I drew a picture of our frugal home, made independent by my labour—sketching- in the little house I had seen at Highgate, and my aunt in her room up-stairs.

“I am not dreadful now, Dora?” said I, tenderly.

“Oh, no, no!” cried Dora. “But I hope your aunt will keep in her own room a good deal! And I hope she’s not a scolding old thing!”

If it were possible for me to love Dora more than ever, I am sure I did. But I felt she was a little impracticable. It damped my new-born ardour, to find that ardour so difficult of communication to her. I made another trial. When she was quite herself again, and was curling Jip’s ears, as he lay upon her lap, I became grave, and said—

“My own! May I mention something?”

“Oh, please don’t be practical!” said Dora, coaxingly. “Because it frightens me so!”

“Sweetheart!” I returned; “there is nothing to alarm you in all this. I want you to think of it quite differently. I want to make it nerve you, and inspire you, Dora!”

“Oh, but that’s so shocking!” cried Dora.

“My love, no. Perseverance and strength of character will enable us to bear much worse things.”

“But I haven’t got any strength at all,” said Dora, shaking her curls. “Have I, Jip? Oh, do kiss Jip, and be agreeable!”

It was impossible to resist kissing Jip, when she held him up to me for that purpose, putting her own bright, rosy little mouth into kissing form, as she directed the operation, which she insisted should be performed symmetrically, on the centre of his nose. I did as she bade me—rewarding myself afterwards for my obedience—and she charmed me out of my graver character for I don’t know how long.

“But, Dora, my beloved!” said I, at last resuming it; “I was going to mention something.”

The Judge of the Prerogative Court might have fallen in love with her, to see her fold her little hands and hold them up, begging and praying me not to be dreadful any more.

“Indeed I am not going to be, my darling!” I assured her. “But, Dora, my love, if you will sometimes think,—not despondingly, you know; far from that!—but if you will sometimes think—just to encourage yourself—that you are engaged to a poor man—”

“Don’t, don’t! Pray don’t!” cried Dora. “It’s so very dreadful!”

“My soul, not at all!” said I, cheerfully. “If you will sometimes think of that, and look about now and then at your papa’s housekeeping, and endeavour to acquire a little habit—of accounts, for instance—”

Poor little Dora received this suggestion with something that was half a sob and half a scream.