memory, does it? But, you see, as we go on in life, every day brings something more to remember, and so this head gets choke full. A babe a year old has some three hundred and sixty-five things to recollect, that is if he remembers only one thing per diem, and a man of fifty has over eighteen million of things stuffed away in this little warehouse," tapping his head; "so he has to rummage and rout before he can find the particular article he wants. His memory don't go with age, but gets overchoked. Now, to change the topic, why haven't you been to see me before?"
"Sir! I could not. I did not know you, and you live a long way from the Ray. Mother cannot walk so far."
"And I can't neither, but not from age but from accident. So your mother can't walk a matter of seven miles. Dear me! How women do deteriorate either with age or with marriage! I could; I would think nothing of it but for my accident. Now tell me what has brought you here, Mehalaleel?"
"I have come," answered Mehalah, looking down, "because driven by necessity to apply to you, as our only relative."
"Bless my soul! Want my help! How? I wish I could as easily apply for yours. My dear girl, I am past help. I've hauled down my flag. All is up with me. I'm drawn up on the mud and put to auction. They are breaking me up. Tell your mother so. Tell her that time was—but let bygones be bygones. How is she looking? Are the roses altogether faded?"
"She is very feeble and suffering. She is greatly afflicted with ague."
"She had it as a girl. One day as I was courting her and whispering pretty things in her ear, she was going to blush and smile, when all at once the fit of shivers came on her, and she could do naught but chatter her teeth and turn green and stream with cold sweat. So she is very feeble, is she?"
"She is weak and ailing."
"Women never do improve, like men, by ripening," said Mr. Pettican. "Girls are angels up to one and twenty, some a little bit later, but after that they deteriorate and become old cats. They are roses up to marriage and
