and voluble tongue of Mrs. Brennan. The
conjugal disputes were renewed under
circumstances of publicity with friends invited
to tea, who interposed and soothed.

One evening, returning home from an
early dinner-party, we were met at the
door by a faithful, not "officer of mine,"
but "own maid" to my Olivia, who, with her
hand pressed to her side and with a panting
voice, faltered: "Oh, it was shocking!
and that we were just in time, and that
Mr. and Mrs. Brennan were killing each
other below." This news, of course, I knew
to be a flourish of such rhetoric as Jane
knew; but to our ears was borne a sort
of sustained shriek, which seemed like a
torrent of expostulation. Anon came
subdued remonstrance, as of a mediator (Mr.
Barney), and a more feminine appeal belonging
to Mrs. Cranley, tea-drinker, trying to
soothe her friend. Some flagrant short-
coming on the part of the fascinating
tailor had come to light, and the outraged
wife could no longer restrain herself. As
the storm seemed to die gradually away,
it was judged best to adjourn trial and
sentence until the morrow; the owner of
the mansion (present writer) saying firmly
as he strode to his room: "This cannot go
on!" which always means that a thing
can and does go on.

Tranquilly engaged in my little sanctum,
I found the door suddenly opened, and two
figures were before me; one, large and
broad, flushed and excited; with glaring
eyes; her broad fat hands clutched on the
arm of the unhappy Mr. Brennan, whom
she had in custody, and whose necktie
was undone and hung down in ends as
limp as himself.

"Oh, this will never do!" I begin,
quite indignant at the degrading spectacle.
"I can't have this——"

"No, no, no!" says Mrs. Brennan. "You
hear that, you low, mean ble-gard,
disgracing me and yourself! But I told ye
I'd expose you——"

"Hush, Anne!" says Mr. Brennan, with
great dignity. "Leave this!" As who
should say, " do not let us wash our
conjugal clothing in public."

Again, I say, "this cannot go on." I
add that Mr. Brennan is on a delicate
footing in the house, and that I must
require him to remove in the morning. I
wind up an impressive speech with my
favourite remark: "you know, yourself,
this cannot go on."

Mr. Brennan acknowledges it with
great dignity, and admits that he has been
handsomely treated. He also tries to withdraw
his lady, who has all this time been
wailing, and vociferating, and vituperating.
I catch sight of inquisitive faces resting on
the bannisters.

"The low, mean vagabone, with his
Mrs. O'Brien. Cock him up! a creature
that you wouldn't throw a halfpenny out
to in the gutter."

"Now, Anne, for shame! Come away,
Anne!" says Mr. Brennan, with dignity.

"I'm a poor broken creature; but the
Lord wished to try me; and for him to be
seen walking down the public street with
a low, thieving, sneaking—Yes, I
will!" and the angry lady turned on the
unhappy man with a stamp.

"This can't go on," I say, for the last
time. "We have nothing to do with your
private quarrels. I can't interfere. You
must both leave this in the morning. Go
away, now."

Leave this in the morning. Bless your
heart! There was great radiance and
animation through the household, a sort of
diffused joy and exultation. Such good
news! Mr. and Mrs. Brennan had been
reconciled either during the night or in the
morning. The past had been forgotten
and forgiven. Mr. Brennan had
handsomely owned that he had been in the wrong.
Everything was to be as before. Mrs.
Brennan had owned publicly that he was
her own dear boy, Phil, again. She
characteristically turned on our Jane, who was
sympathising with her.

"Well, and what if he does? I'd just
like you to go through the streets of London
and find the man that's as straight
and regular! Much you know, indeed!
What business is it of yours?" added Mrs.
Brennan, bursting into fury, "how dar you
to speak to me?"

To my astonishment I found it was
accepted universally that this reconciliation
quite took away the necessity for their
departure.

"Oh, George!" says my Olivia, "we
could not turn them away now, after he
behaving so well. If he should relapse, we
should never forgive ourselves."

In short, as this was the yacht voyage,
and Mrs. Brennan a very good cook—well,
I gave way weakly, taking care, however,
to utter some prophecies, whose certain
fulfilment would add to my reputation as a
domestic seer.

Again we rubbed on. About a fortnight
passed away, and Christmas-day
came round. It was to be a festival of
innocent amusement—mistletoe, holly, &c.
Mrs. Brennan had devoted herself to the