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Peckaby
had beheld the deceitful vision earlier in the night.
"Who's there?" called out Peckaby.
"It's me, Peckaby," was the answer, delivered in a forlorn tone. "Come
down and open the door."
"Who's 'me'?" asked Peckaby.
"It's me," repeated Mrs. Peckaby, looking up.
And what with her height and the low casement, their faces were really
not many inches apart; but yet Peckaby appeared not to know her.
"You be off, will you!" retorted he. "A pretty thing if tramps be to
come to decent folks' doors and knock 'em up like this. Who's door did
you take it for?"
"It's me!" screamed Mrs. Peckaby. "Don't you know me? Come and undo the
door, and let me come in. I be sopping."
"Know you! How should I know you? Who be you?"
"Good heavens, Peckaby! you must know me. Ain't I your wife?"
"My wife! Not a bit on't. You needn't come here with that gammon,
missis, whoever you be. My wife's gone off to New Jerusalem on a white
donkey."
He slammed to the casement. Mrs. Peckaby, what with the rain and what
with the disappointment, burst into tears.


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