'T was nite, in Posey County, Ingeany!

[For a full description uv sed nite, see Chapter I uv the author's last
and greatest work, “The Rival Blood-tubs; or, The Struggle for Crout.”]

The lovely Marguerite de Smythe wuz alone in
her chamber. Her hed wuz bowed on a table, on2
wich flickered the dim lite uv a cotton rag floatin
in a sarser uv lard. Her disheveled hair, her
elasticless stockins, and, more than all else, the
hole in the heel uv wun uv em, showed that she
wuz laborin under some feerful emotion. For

[figure description] Page 412.[end figure description]

awhile she sot, her fair buzzum heevin like old
Ocean when Boreas smites it, her whole frame
quiverin like a peach-tree with a dozen little niggers
in it. At larst her overcharged feelins found
vent in tears.

“Marion!” she cried, “thy mop, girl!” and for
12 hours the faithful handmaiden mopped up the
pearly tears ez they fell from those beauteous
orbs, wringin the rags out of the winder.

“This suspense is intolerable,” muttered the
frenzied Marguerite. “I kin endoor it no longer.
Timothy! Timothy!” she shreeked, in a agony
uv despair.

Skasely hed the word left her lips ere a step
wuz heerd upon the stairs. It approached nearer
and nearer—“Thank Heven, 't is him!” screamed
the delited girl, ez she threw a buffalo-robe upon
the floor to faint on in case Timothy shood fale to
ketch her in his arms. Nearer and nearer the
step approached; a heavy hand wuz laid upon the
latch, the door flew open, and Marguerite rushed
into the arms uv—not Timothy—but the Bow-legged
Knite! A demoniakle smile played over
his sinister countenance ez, wringin the neck uv
Marion and pitchin her out uv the winder, he restored
the inannymate Marguerite 2 conshusnis,
by sousin a barl or 2 uv water upon her.

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