being gone, some little impatience to know when he may be going, and some resentful opinion that it is time he went.

“Now, if everybody has done,” says Judy, completing her preparations, “I’ll have that girl in to her tea. She would never leave off, if she took it by herself in the kitchen.”

Charley is accordingly introduced, and under a heavy fire of eyes, sits down to her basin and a Druidical ruin of bread and butter. In the active superintendence of this young person, Judy Smallweed appears to attain a perfectly geological age and to date from the remotest periods. Her systematic manner of flying at her and pouncing on her, with or without pretence, whether or no, is wonderful, evincing an accomplishment in the art of girl-driving seldom reached by the oldest practitioners.

“Now, don’t stare about you all the afternoon,” cries Judy, shaking her head and stamping her foot as she happens to catch the glance which has been previously sounding the basin of tea, “but take your victuals and get back to your work.”

“Yes, miss,” says Charley.

“Don’t say yes,” returns Miss Smallweed, “for I know what you girls are. Do it without saying it, and then I may begin to believe you.”

Charley swallows a great gulp of tea in token of submission, and so disperses the Druidical ruins that Miss Smallweed charges her not to gormandize, which “in you girls,” she observes, is disgusting. Charley might find some more difficulty in meeting her views on the general subject of girls but for a knock at the door.

“See who it is, and don’t chew when you open it!” cries Judy.

The object of her attentions withdrawing for the purpose, Miss Smallweed takes that opportunity of jumbling the remainder of the bread and butter together and launching two or three dirty tea-cups into the ebb- tide of the basin of tea; as a hint that she considers the eating and drinking terminated.

“Now! Who is it, and what’s wanted?” says the snappish Judy.

It is one Mr George, it appears. Without other announcement or ceremony, Mr George walks in.

“Whew!” says Mr George. “You are hot here. Always a fire, eh? Well! Perhaps you do right to get used to one.” Mr George makes the latter remark to himself as he nods to Grandfather Smallweed.

“Ho! It’s you!” cries the old gentleman. “How de do? How de do?”

“Middling,” replies Mr George, taking a chair. “Your granddaughter I have had the honour of seeing before; my service to you, miss.”

“This is my grandson,” says Grandfather Smallweed. “You ha’n’t seen him before. He is in the law and not much at home.”

“My service to him, too! He is like his sister. He is very like his sister. He is devilish like his sister,” says Mr George, laying a great and not altogether complimentary stress on his last adjective.

“And how does the world use you, Mr George?” Grandfather Smallweed inquires, slowly rubbing his legs.

“Pretty much as usual. Like a football.”