"
The chair-bedstead shook in sympathy with Mr. Hatchard's husbandly
emotion.
"Well, it's nothing to do with me," he said at last.
"He's mad," said his wife, in a tense whisper; "stark staring mad. He
says I'm his favorite wife, and he made me stroke his forehead."
The bed shook again.
"I don't see that I have any right to interfere," said Mr. Hatchard,
after he had quieted the bedstead. "He's your lodger."
"You're my husband," said Mrs. Hatchard. "Ho!" said Mr. Hatchard.
"You've remembered that, have you?"
"Yes, Alfred," said his wife.
"And are you sorry for all your bad behavior?" demanded Mr. Hatchard.
Mrs. Hatchard hesitated. Then a clatter of fire-irons downstairs moved
her to speech.
"Ye-yes," she sobbed.
"And you want me to take you back?" queried the generous Mr. Hatchard.
"Ye-ye-yes," said his wife.
Mr. Hatchard got out of bed and striking a match lit the candle, and,
taking his overcoat from a peg behind the door, put it on and marched
downstairs. Mrs. Hatchard, still trembling, followed behind.
"What's all this?" he demanded, throwing the door open with a flourish.
Mr. Sadler, still holding the fire-shovel sceptre-fashion and still with
the paper cap on his head, opened his mouth to reply. Then, as he saw
the unkempt figure of Mr.
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