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ing and thinking it over: After all, her only son, the apple of her eye he would be there and we here! And if so, what, says she, would life he to her? "Well," say I, "what do you propose doing?" "What I propose doing?" says she. "Can't you guess? I propose," says she, "to be with him." "You do?" say I. "And the house? What about the house?" "The house," says she, "is a house." Anything to object to in that? So she was off to him, and I was left alone at home. And what a home! I leave you to imagine. May such a year be to my enemies! My comfort was gone, the business went to the bad. Everything went to the bad, and we were continually writing letters. I wrote to her, she wrote to me letters went and letters came. Peace to my beloved wife ! Peace to my beloved husband ! "For Heaven's sake," I write, "what is to be the end of it ? After all, I'm no more than a man ! A man with- out a housemistress !" It was as much use as last year's snow; it was she who had her way, she, and not I, as usual.
To make an end of my story, I worked and worried myself to pieces, made a mull of the whole business, sold out, became a poor man, and carried my bundle over to them. Once there, I took a look round to see where I was in the world, nibbled here and there, just managed to make my way a bit, and entered into a partnership with a trader, quite a respectable man, yes ! A well-to-do householder, holding office in the Shool, but at bottom a deceiver, a swindler, a pickpocket, who was nearly the ruin of me! You can imagine what a cheerful state of things it was. Meanwhile I come home
