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 upstairs.

“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!”