THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
15 
“What harm?” says Jerry; “why, its my opinion 
as the first harm that ever was, was washed ashore by 
water. Ah, it’s a queer thing, and it’s the greatest pity 
as it is that we can’t do without it; but we can’t, I 
suppose. It’s one o’ the necessities as came to us with 
the fall o’ man. What harm is there in it, indeed? 
Why, don’t you suppose as the sarpint that tempted 
Adam’s missus was a sea-sarpint ? o’ course he was; and 
I tell you there’s no countin’ the harm there is in water. 
Look at ycr mud lariqi, and your river thieves, and 
your pierits, and then tell me as there’s no harm in 
water. And this Dan Harroway,—why, as I may say, 
lie’s been bred to it. I mind him when he come up no 
higher than my knee, a chip;;.;)' little boats out of 
notliing one minute, and a pumpin’ on liisself in the 
market-place at Bassett another; and when I saw it, I 
always said as he’d come to ruin. So lie’s my landlord, 
is he ? Well, landlord or no landlord^ let me catch him 
making eyes at my gal agen, that’s all. 
“How do you know but what he means well by her, 
Jerry?” said I. 
“ Mean well by her?” said Jerry; “not he. Ho, no ; 
whatever Dan is, lie’s a bit above us; though as for 
Mercy herself, a king might mean well by her, for that 
matter. She has a face of her own, has Mercy, and a 
figure too, bless her. As Smilish over the way says, (for 
I can’t never go to have a chat with Smilish now but what 
he begins spelling and speering about her; though poor 
chap, he’s lived oil' a herring and a tater this fortnight, 
they say). ‘ She’s as pretty,’ says Smilish, speakin’ o’ 
Mercy, ‘ as a wilet, and she don’t know it no more ’an a 
wilet.’ No more she don’t; but I’ll warrant if Dan 
Harroway sets his evil eye upon her, she’ll know it soon 
enough. Halloa! who’s that?” 
It was Smilish himself, poking his red head in at the 
door. 
“Talk of angels,” said Jerry, “and— But, lor’, man. 
wliat’s the matter with you ? Have you seen a ghost ?” 
“ Come here, Jerry Rouse,” said Smilish, beckoning 
with his great hand. 
Jerry and I got up and went to the door. 
“Look there, Jerry Rouse,” said Smilish, dragging 
him out and pointing up the court. 
Now, when I tell you the moon was so bright you 
could see the fish-scales sticking to Smilish’s red hand as 
he pointed, you’ll see that there’s no mistaking two 
figures which stood by the wall of a half-finished house 
at the top of the court. In that light, if they belonged 
to the parish at all, Jerry must know them. They did 
belong to the parish, and Jerry did know them. 
It was Dan and Mercy. 
They were holding hands, saying good-by, as it seemed. 
We all three stood looking at them a minute or more, 
then Jerry took up the corner of his leather apron, and 
tucked it in the string that went round his waist, and 
went up the court to them. His house was number 
three, you know, go there was but the length of two 
houses to go 
The two dropped each other’s hands as they saw lum; 
Mercy shrank back, but Dan stood up in his boots and 
faced him like a man. 
“ Mercy, my gal,” said Jerry, laying his hand on her 
shoulder, and pointing to his wretched little place, “ go 
home.” And she went home, and Smilish turned his 
face away. 
Then Jerry turned to Dan, and says he,— 
“ Dan Harroway,” says he, “ you’re my landlord, as I 
hear, and I’m half a year’s rent in your debt; I don’t 
want to see my little ones turned out in the cold with¬ 
out a roof to cover ’em, so I can’t say exactly what I 
should ’a’ said to you if to-day had been yesterday. All 
as I say now is, don’t let me catch you talking to my 
gal agen.” 
Now I think by Dan’s face he was going to make him 
a quiet answer, but as ill-luck would have it, who should 
pass the end of the court that minute but Jem Barnes 
and Staokleton, and a lot more of Dan’s friends, on their 
way home from a card-party at the Water-Lily ; and of 
course when they caught sight of Dan and Jerry stand¬ 
ing like that, and knowing Dan’s going on with Mercy, 
of course they stopped to see the fun. Dan turned on 
his heel to go up to them. 
Jerry griped him by the collar and jerked him 
back. 
“ Dan Harroway,” says he, “ you don’t go out o’ this 
yer court till you’ve giv me your promise as you’ll 
never speak another word to my gal in your life. ’ 
“Don’t I?” said Dan, wrenching himself away; 
“ we’ll see about that. What do you suppose I care 
for your girl? and if I did, why, haven’t I as much right 
to have my say to her as any one else?” 
“I ll tell you,” said Jerry, his passion up as he heard 
all the young fellows laughing at him. “Because Dan 
Harroway, you haven’t a rag to your back as belongs 
to you by good rights, nor a drop o’ blood in your body 
that’s been made by lionest-earned wittles. You live by 
hook and by crook, spendin’ here and takiu’ there, and 
betting and gambling and drinking. They tell me as 
you’re proud, but I tell you, Dan Harroway, that me as 
cuts this yer poor figure by the side of you have got 
more pride in me ’n you have, for I’ve pride enough to 
keep me slaving and sweating in that ’ere hole as you ‘ 
calls yourself landlord of, from year’s end to year’s end, 
rathener I’d take a penny from the parish or any man 
alive to go to the feed o’ them little uns.” 
“ Then look you, Jerry Rouse,” said Dan, flashing on 
him with his eyes as the young fellows came nearer, 
“ you owe me two quarters’ rent; if you’ve got the 
pride you’re telling of, pay it me down now.” * 
“I can’t, you know it,” Jerry said, with a groan; 
“ I’d give my head if I could.” 
“Very well, you’ll beg my pardon for every word 
you’ve said to me this night, or you’ll suffer for it. I’ll 
give you till over Christmas day ; if you haven’t begged 
my pardon or paid down your rent by then, you turn 
out, bag and baggage.” 
And Dan turned and walked away. 
“Stop a bit,” said Jerry, following him and laying his 
hand on his shoulder; “do you promise me what I asked 
you about my gal ? ” 
“No,” said Dan Harroway, fiercely, “I don’t; is that 
plain ?” 
Jerry didn’t answer him, but turned and walked 
home. 
“ Mercy,” he said, taking off his apron as he came in 
at the door, “put on your bonnet and come along 
o me. I’m a goin’ to take you over to your grand¬ 
mother’s at Bassett, my wench. You can’t bide here no 
longer.” 
With a face white as a sheet, Mercy got a hand¬ 
kerchief and rolled up a few things in it among ’em I 
