“Wery queer,” said Sam. “I think she’s a-injurin’ herself gradivally vith too much o’ that ’ere pineapple rum, and other strong medicines of the same natur.”

“You don’t mean that, Sammy?” said the senior earnestly.

“I do, indeed,” replied the junior.

Mr. Weller seized his son’s hand, clasped it, and let it fall. There was an expression on his countenance in doing so⁠—not of dismay or apprehension, but partaking more of the sweet and gentle character of hope. A gleam of resignation, and even of cheerfulness, passed over his face too, as he slowly said, “I ain’t quite certain, Sammy; I wouldn’t like to say I wos altogether positive, in case of any subsekent disappointment, but I rayther think, my boy, I rayther think, that the shepherd’s got the liver complaint!”

“Does he look bad?” inquired Sam.