"Oh, Tiff, Tiff! you're a good creature! But you don't know. Here I've been lying alone day after day, and he off, nobody knows where! And when he comes, it'll be only a day, and he's off; and all he does don't amount to anything—all miserable rubbish brought home and traded off for other rubbish. Oh, what a fool I was for being married! Oh, dear! girls little know what marriage is! I thought it was so dreadful to be an old maid, and a pretty thing to get married! But, oh, the pain, and worry, and sickness, and suffering, I've gone through!—always wandering from place to place, never settled; one thing going after another, worrying, watching, weary,—and all for nothing, for I am worn out, and I shall die!"

"Oh, Lord, no!" said Tiff, earnestly. "Lor, Tiff'll make ye some tea, and give it to ye, ye poor lamb! It's drefful hard, so 't is; but times'll mend, and massa'll come round and be more settled, like, and Teddy will grow up and help his ma; and I'm sure dere isn't a pearter young un dan dis yer puppet!" said he, turning fondly to the trough where the little fat, red mass of incipient humanity was beginning to throw up two small fists, and to utter sundry small squeaks, to intimate his desire to come into notice.

"Lor, now," said he, adroitly depositing Teddy on the floor, and taking up the baby, whom he regarded fondly through his great spectacles; "stretch away, my pretty! stretch away! ho-e-ho! Lor, if he hasn't got his mammy's eye, for all dis worl! Ah, brave! See him, missis!" said he, laying the little bundle on the bed by her. "Did ye ever see a peartier young un? He, he, he! Dar, now, his mammy should take him, so she should! and Tiff'll make mammy some tea, so he will!" And Tiff, in a moment, was on his knees, carefully laying together the ends of the burned sticks, and blowing a cloud of white ashes, which powdered his woolly head and red shawl like snow-flakes, while Teddy was busy in pulling the needles out of some knitting-work which hung in a bag by the fire.

Tiff, having started the fire by blowing, proceeded very carefully to adjust upon it a small, black porringer of water, singing, as he did so,—

"My way is dark and cloudy,

So it is, so it is;

My way is dark and cloudy,

All de day."

Then, rising from his work, he saw that the poor, weak mother had clasped the baby to her bosom, and was sobbing very quietly. Tiff, as he stood there, with his short, square, ungainly figure, his long arms hanging out from his side like bows, his back covered by the red shawl, looked much like a compassionate tortoise standing on its hind legs. He looked pitifully at the sight, took off his glasses and wiped his eyes, and lifted up his voice in another stave:—