The Memoirs of Mr. Charles J. Yellowplush. William Makepeace Thackeray

it was now an extraordinary thing that from Shum's house for the next ten days there was nothing but expyditions into the city. Mrs. S., tho her dropsicle legs had never carred her half so fur before, was eternally on the key veve, as the French say. If she didn't go, Miss Betsy did, or misses did: they seemed to have an attrackshun to the Bank, and went there as natral as an omlibus.

      At last one day, old Mrs. Shum comes to our house—(she wasn't admitted when master was there, but came still in his absints)—and she wore a hair of tryumph, as she entered. “Mary,” says she, “where is the money your husbind brought to you yesterday?” My master used always to give it to missis when he returned.

      “The money, ma!” says Mary. “Why here!” And pulling out her puss, she showed a sovrin, a good heap of silver, and an odd-looking little coin.

      “THAT'S IT! that's it!” cried Mrs. S. “A Queene Anne's sixpence, isn't it, dear—dated seventeen hundred and three?”

      It was so sure enough: a Queen Ans sixpence of that very date.

      “Now, my love,” says she, “I have found him! Come with me to-morrow, and you shall KNOW ALL!”

      And now comes the end of my story.