HAVING no concern with the judicial business, I took my sleep out; and it was late in the day ere I drew my bridle at the mouth of Lady Stair's close, where Joanne had taken up her abode, in a lodging-house, kept, as I afterwards discovered, by a leading member of the Society for the Conversion of the Chinese. However much I had been annoyed with the absurd incident of yesterday, you may believe that nothing could be farther from my thoughts than seriously to blame my poor wife for the part she had acted. She burst into tears on seeing me, and clung round my neck with infinite passion. It was some time ere I could get her calmed sufficiently to answer in an intelligible manner the questions I naturally proposed, touching the mistake into which she had fallen, and the circumstances which had given rise to it.

“Oh, Matthew,” sobbed she, “what could I do? Mrs Mather told me she was sure it was so; and the Principal too, the good worthy Principal, he said he knew your temper, and that nothing would restrain you.”

“Mather! Good heavens! Joanne, where, how have you fallen in with these people? You know how I abominate them?”

“Oh, now, Matthew, don't speak that way: I’m sure you have not a better friend in this world.—I met them both at Lady Carjarg’s; and when they knew who I was, I’m sure they spoke as kindly of you, as if you had been their own child. He's an eminent man, the Principal. O dear! to think of remembering old trifles of that sort, and especially now, when they are in this sore affliction—this grievous distress indeed—and young Mr Mather too, and the girl—oh, you have no notion what a state the whole family are in.”

“The family!—the Farrow!—Don't breathe that name again, Joanne, if you love me.”

“Oh, Matthew, this is a very unchristian temper. Do, my dearest, do but consider how many suns you have let go down upon this wrath.”