But it may ` temper. ( rises )

( L .) My temper?—Ha, ha, ha! insignificant creature.

(R.) You're angry, dear.

No, mem, I'm not!

Yes, you are, love.

I tell you I ain't!

Yes, darling, you are. (Box and Cox rise and come down)

Box! pack up our trunks this moment and call a cab! I'll not remain another moment under this roof. (taking Box by the arm)

(interposing) Ladies, ladies, don't get warm. Come here ! (Cox comes forward to c, the two Ladies come on either side of him) You ( to Mrs. Box) stand for Greenwich, there—and you, my dear, (to Mrs. Cox) for Rosherville, there. Now, as we can't dine conveniently at both places, I propose an intermediate banquet at Blackwall, here, (touching his breast)

Oh ! I don't presume to dictate—anywhere but Rosherville.

I've no voice in the matter—I only object to Greenwich.

(L. C.) Well, that matter's settled. How shall we go down ?

( L .) What does Mrs. Cox say?

(R. C.) I say nothing—I leave it to you, Sophy—you always oppose everybody.

I deny that! It is ` Fanny, that'will never give up a ` But you can't help it, dear—you never could; and I've often said if ever there was ever a dear aggravating creature in the world, it was Fanny Hawes. (Mrs. Cox laughs contemptuously; both Ladies go up stage)

( aside and agitated) Fanny Hawes !—good gracious !—that name ! If it should be (aside to Cox) Cox! was your wife's name Hawes ?

(aside to him) Of course it was, till we were married, and Cox obliterated Hawes. Come, ladies, let us finish our breakfast. (sits at table) Another cup of coffee, Mrs. B. ? (the two Ladies reseat themselves at table)

(apart L.) Fanny Hawes? Hah! (takes a white kid glove out of his pocket-book) It must be the mysterious owner of this little kid glove, that I purloined from an interesting fellow-passenger whom I travelled with in an excursion train from Brighton one evening about eighteen months ago. Hah ! what delicious recollections it suggests of a small waist and a very large carpet bag ! She evidently don't recollect me—but that's not surprising, as in the dim twilight, and the obscurity of a second-class carriage, neither of us could distinguish the other's features.

Box ! you havn't breakfasted.

Oh, yes, I have—don't mind me. (apart) She can't however, forget the attentive stranger, who carried her little dog on his knees during our journey—she can't forget the white kid glove that I've preserved ever since. Here's her name inside: "Fanny Hawes"—and here's a slight memorandum of my feelings written at the time. I wish I could speak a few words to her; I've some mournful intelligence to communicate to her, that I'd rather Mrs. Box. shouldn't be aware of—but how to reveal myself ?

Muffins all gone?

(Apart) Muffins ! happy idea—I'll place her glove under a muffin, and give it to her with a mysterious wink. ( he goes to side table, takes the last muffin on a plate, which he bring down. L. ) This is certainly a most ingenious plan. (he places the glove under the muffin) There, she can't miss it.

Box, dear, will you fetch me my shawl from the next room?

Certainly my love. (aside) Confound the shawl ! (puts down plate with muffin on side table, and goes hastily into room , 2 R. L.)

Are there no more muffins? (rises and sees the muffins Box has left on table, L.) Oh, here's one left. ( takes the muffin and returns to breakfast table.) I've a theory about muffins, that they're a curious combination of sponge and wash leather; (endeavouring to cut the muffin) and I've strong suspicion that the leather predominates in this particular specimen—there's no cutting through it. Eh! eh! what's this? ( rises and holds up the glove on his fork) Well really now—Mrs. Bouncer—this is too bad—though I am partial to muffins,—I can't swallow gloves !

Gloves. ( they rise and come forward)

Yes,—a lady's kid as I live,—and what is here -somethings written inside. (reads) "Fanny Hawes."

` name?

And here on a slip of paper.—" April the 1st 1851,—the happiest day of my life! oh, Fanny Hawes when shall we meet again?—Signed, "John Box, Printer'- Hah! (Box rushes down, both ladies scream, Mrs. Box falling in a swoon into the arms of Cox, R., and Mrs. Cox into the arms of Box, L.)

Hah!—Box you're a villain.

Cox,—you're another.

Drop my wife this instant, sir ?

I shan't, till you relinquish my better half.

Miserable subterfuge! As the husband of that lady, I demand your card, sir?

You'll find it in my left-hand trowsors' pocket-come and take it ?

I regret that the affair I have on hand prevents my availing myself of your polite offer.

Nothing but the pressing nature of my present engagement could make me think of putting you to so much trouble.

Don't mention it,—will you allow me to make one observation ?

Certainly, Cox, with pleasure.

Well then; I had no idea that Mrs. Box was so ponderous.

And I assure you, I am quite overpowered by the solidarity of Mrs. Cox. ( a child is heard crying in room, R., another in room, L. ) What's that? an infantine cry.

(starting to her feet) The blessed child!

(starting to her feet) The dear baby ! ( the Ladies rush into room, R. and L .)

Hem! The ladies having retired for the performance of their maternal duties, I presume we are alone.

I believe I may venture to say we are.

Well, then, we must come to an understanding, sir. That glove (shows the glove) requires an explanation.

(taking the glove) This glove—oh, yes! certainly, (puts the glove into his pocket) Ha ! of course, my dear fellow, sit down.

I'd rather not.

Sit down, I insist— (pushes him into a chair, R. C.)—now, we can talk the matter ovor calmly and dispassionately, (places chair for himself, L. C. and sits)

Proceed, Mr. Box.

It was a lovely evening towards the close of the fourteenth century

What the devil have I to do with the fourteenth century, air?

(rises) If the honourable gentleman on the opposite side requires an explanation, I shall give it in my own way. I repeat, then, it was a lovely evening towards the close of the fourteenth century, when two horsemen, enveloped in ample cloaks, might be seen slowly ascending the winding path that leads to the castle. "By my Holidam !" exclaimed the older swarthy stranger —— Do you follow me ?

(rising) I'll be d—d if I do.

(calls in room, R.) Cox! Cox!

(rises) Hah! there's your wife calling you.

Never mind my wife—the explanation, sir!

There's your child, Box—your only child—the image of its father—do you hear? Now it screams—inhuman parent, why don't you fly ? (pushing him)

(in room, R.) Cox ! Cox ! I want you.

But the explanation—the glove—the—the—

There—your wife—your sweet babe—calls you—you can't resist that appeal. ( pushes him into room, R.) Whew ! I thought I should never have got him away—what's to be done, now—shall I confess all ?—why shouldn't I ? I'll relate the whole story—how Fanny Hawes and I travelled in the same railway carriage—how I purloined her glove—how wo got separated by the crowd at the station—how I was left with her lapdog in my arms—how the poor creature got choked the following week—how Fanny Hawes and I never met until this hour. (Mrs. Cox enters from room, R.) Hah ! Mysterious being—Fanny, dear—dear Fanny—I beg pardon, Mrs. Cox—forgive the emotion—the confusion—that this unexpected discovery makes in my intellect. ( in a confidential tone) Where's Cox?

I left him singing the child to sleep.

Happy Cox ! (places a chair, R.C.) Sit down, my dear Mrs. C.

Perfectly. And I have often thought since of the dear little creature that I left in your arms when we were rudely separated.

(aside) Her lapdog!—she hasn't forgotten him then. A— you allude to —

My little Charley!

(apart, at door) Her little Charley!

Yes, I wish to speak to you privately about him ; you were greatly attached to the poor fellow ?

I doted on him: he was such a beauty with his silken hair, like his mother, and his charming long ears

(apart) Like his father I suppose.

Then he was ` playful

Wonderfully! The very day I took him home, he tore up Mrs. Bouncer's best cap, for which I had to pay.

I can't tell you how I grieved for him—until I got another

Then you have got another ?

Oh, dear, yes. Cox has been very kind—such a little love—you can't think; but I never loved him as I did my pet Charley.

(apart at door) Oh ! her pet Charley!

(apart at door) Hoh!

Of course, first affection is always the strongest. Poor Charley! It quite affects me when I reflect upon his untimely end.

What—is he dead ?

That was what I wanted to tell you,—poor dear little Charley is no more.

Oh ! Mr. Box, you do shock me !

I knew you would be deeply affected; but I've done all I could to keep his dear remains for you.

His remains ?—how ?

I've had him beautifully preserved—he looks just as if he was alive. I thought it might be a melancholy consolation to you to drop a tear or so upon the dear departed. (Mrs. Box and Mr. Cox rush down suddenly on each side. It commences raining)

(R.) Hah! so we've discovered you.

(L.) Oh! we've heard all

About the dear little creature.

(to Box) Your darling Charley !

(to Mrs. Cox) The playful little fellow, with his mother's silken hair!

(to Box) And his father's long ears! (Box and Mrs. Cox laughing immoderately, throw themselves into chairs, R. and L.)

Oh ! mighty fine, madam!

It's just like you, Mr. Box!

My feelings as a husband have been trampled upon! I'll join the Broken-hearted Club directly—I'll leave you for ever—I'll take the first omnibus to Australia, and bury my sorrows in the Diggings! (puts on his hat, Box and Mrs. Cox continue to laugh)

Oh, go by all means—we can spare you !

Don't stay a moment on our account!

But it rains tremendously! (calls at door, 3 E. L.) Mrs. Bouncer, has that cabman brought my umbrella yet ?

(outside) No—not yet, sir.

Not yet—how very extraordinary, (goes to window, L., a Child cries in room R.; then another Child in room L .)

The blessed child.

My poppet ! (they run into rooms, R. and L.)

(at window) Hah! why surely that's my umbrella a coming down the street,—brown gingham—brass spike—two broken ribs: I can't be mistaken. (thrown up window and calls) Holloa, sir—hey! I beg your pardon, but that umbrella is mine. I say, sir, that umbrella you are carrying is my property.

(in street) No it isn't, I gave a shilling for it this morning on Holborn Hill.

It's quite immaterial what you gave for it, sir, the umbrella is mine—and I expect you'll instantly give it up!

(in street) Do you? then you'd better come and take it.

Oh, very well, only wait there till I come down, and see if I won't have it. (quitting the window) An impudent rascal, to refuse to give me up my umbrella, that I've had for twelve years.

Holloa! I shouldn't wonder if there was to be a row. Honour calls me to aid my friend, but prudence whispers that I never learnt the noble art of self defence—so I shall look on and see fair play. (goes to window and looks out)

( in the street) Now, sir, give up my umbrella !

( in the street) I won't!

(in the street) You won't ?—but I'll have it!

(in the street) Holloa! what do you mean ? Police! robbery! murder!

Oh! there's Cox pitching into the stranger, and the stranger digging away at Cox ! (while they are fighting, Boys are heard cheering at intervals; scuffling and voices in the street, some cry, " A ring!" " Make a ring !" " Stand Back !" " Hurray!" " Go it little 'un !")

(outside) Take that!—hah ! (cheer outside)

Bravo ! Cox has given him a topper; hah ! there again, oh lord he's got Cox's head in Chancery and is hammering at it with persevering diligence, hah!—there they go, both down together,—Cox uppermost—give it him, Cox,—give it him, my boy,—two to one on Cox.—.Now they're at it again—steady Cox. Hold up your head and fight low. Oh lord, there's a smasher on his nose—never mind it, Cox—go in and win, my boy.— Holloa, foul blow,— (comes down) —foul blow, I say,—stop the fight!—help !—murder!—police ! (vehement cheers outside) (Mrs. Cox and Mrs. Box rush out of their rooms, each carrying a baby)