Persisting, Bella gave her attention to one thing and forgot the other, and gave her attention to the other and forgot the third, and remembering the third was distracted by the fourth, and made amends whenever she went wrong by giving the unfortunate fowls an extra spin, which made their chance of ever getting cooked exceedingly doubtful. But it was pleasant cookery too. Meantime Miss Lavinia, oscillating between the kitchen and the opposite room, prepared the dining-table in the latter chamber. This office she (always doing her household spiriting with unwillingness) performed in a startling series of whisks and bumps; laying the table-cloth as if she were raising the wind, putting down the glasses and salt-cellars as if she were knocking at the door, and clashing the knives and forks in a skirmishing manner suggestive of hand-to-hand conflict.

“Look at Ma,” whispered Lavinia to Bella when this was done, and they stood over the roasting fowls. “If one was the most dutiful child in existence (of course on the whole one hopes one is), isn’t she enough to make one want to poke her with something wooden, sitting there bolt upright in a corner?”

“Only suppose,” returned Bella, “that poor Pa was to sit bolt upright in another corner.”

“My dear, he couldn’t do it,” said Lavvy. “Pa would loll directly. But indeed I do not believe there ever was any human creature who could keep so bolt upright as Ma, or put such an amount of aggravation into one back! What’s the matter, Ma? Ain’t you well, Ma?”

“Doubtless I am very well,” returned Mrs. Wilfer, turning her eyes upon her youngest born, with scornful fortitude. “What should be the matter with Me?”

“You don’t seem very brisk, Ma,” retorted Lavvy the bold.

“Brisk?” repeated her parent, “Brisk? Whence the low expression, Lavinia? If I am uncomplaining, if I am silently contented with my lot, let that suffice for my family.”

“Well, Ma,” returned Lavvy, “since you will force it out of me, I must respectfully take leave to say that your family are no doubt under the greatest obligations to you for having an annual toothache on your wedding day, and that it’s very disinterested in you, and an immense blessing to them. Still, on the whole, it is possible to be too boastful even of that boon.”

“You incarnation of sauciness,” said Mrs. Wilfer, “do you speak like that to me? On this day, of all days in the year? Pray do you know what would have become of you, if I had not bestowed my hand upon R. W., your father, on this day?”

“No, Ma,” replied Lavvy, “I really do not; and, with the greatest respect for your abilities and information, I very much doubt if you do either.”

Whether or no the sharp vigour of this sally on a weak point of Mrs. Wilfer’s entrenchments might have routed that heroine for the time, is rendered uncertain by the arrival of a flag of truce in the person of Mr. George Sampson: bidden to the feast as a friend of the family, whose affections were now understood to be in course of transference from Bella

to Lavinia, and whom Lavinia kept — possibly in remembrance of his bad taste in having overlooked her in the first instance — under a course of stinging discipline.

“I congratulate you, Mrs. Wilfer,” said Mr. George Sampson, who had meditated this neat address while coming along, “on the day.” Mrs. Wilfer thanked him with a magnanimous sigh, and again became an unresisting prey to that inscrutable toothache.

“I am surprised,” said Mr. Sampson feebly, “that Miss Bella condescends to cook.”