“She’s a-goin’ off,” soliloquised Sam in great perplexity. “Wot a thing it is, as these here young creeturs will go a-faintin’ avay just ven they oughtn’t to. Here, young ’ooman, Miss Sawbones, Mrs. Vinkle, don’t!”

Whether it was the magic of Mr. Winkle’s name, or the coolness of the open air, or some recollection of Mr. Weller’s voice, that revived Arabella, matters not. She raised her head and languidly inquired, “Who’s that, and what do you want?”

“Hush,” said Sam, swinging himself on to the wall, and crouching there in as small a compass as he could reduce himself to, “only me, miss, only me.”

“ Mr. Pickwick’s servant!” said Arabella earnestly.