secrecy and mystery, till my life is a burden to
me.«
    His visitor professes his regret to hear it, and asks him does he remember
Jo? Mr. Snagsby answers with a suppressed groan, O don't he!
    »You couldn't name an individual human being - except myself - that my
little woman is more set and determined against than Jo,« says Mr. Snagsby.
    Allan asks why?
    »Why?« repeats Mr. Snagsby, in his desperation clutching at the clump of
hair at the back of his bald head. »How should I know why? But you are a single
person, sir, and may you long be spared to ask a married person such a
question!«
    With this beneficent wish, Mr. Snagsby coughs a cough of dismal resignation,
and submits himself to hear what the visitor has to communicate.
    »There again!« says Mr. Snagsby, who, between the earnestness of his
feelings, and the suppressed tones of his voice, is discoloured in the face. »At
it again, in a new direction! A certain person charges me, in the solemnest way,
not to talk of Jo to any one, even my little woman. Then comes another certain
person, in the person of yourself, and charges me, in an equally solemn way, not
to mention Jo to that other certain person above all other persons. Why, this is
a private asylum! Why, not to put too fine a point upon it, this is Bedlam,
sir!« says Mr. Snagsby.
    But it is better than he expected, after all; being no explosion of the mine
below him, or deepening of the pit into which he has fallen. And being
tender-hearted, and affected by the account he hears of Jo's condition, he
readily engages to look round as early in the evening as he can manage it
quietly. He looks round very quietly, when the evening comes; but it may turn
out that Mrs. Snagsby is as quiet a manager as he.
    Jo is very glad to see his old friend; and says, when they are left alone,
that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come so far out of his way
on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Snagsby, touched by the spectacle before him,
immediately lays upon the table half-a-crown: that magic balsam of his for all
kinds of wounds.
    »And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?« inquires the stationer, with
his cough of sympathy.