must it be forgotten that this is the day when
discoveries are made that "we have no
firewood," or that "we are out of potatoes," and
so disappearances on quite an extended scale
in search of these luxuries, become not only
indispensable, but meritorious. It would be
difficult, in this particular instance, to say
whether this young woman's sulkiness or her
disappearances was the most trying.

Of course, the larger part of the work
up-stairs fell to the share of the mistress of the
house. It was upon her that devolved all the
trouble of planning which rooms were to be
given to her guest and to her servant (I believe
Mrs. Penmore dreaded this last most of the
two), and how they could be arranged most
satisfactorily. She it was who had to twist and
turn the poor furniture about so as to make it
show to the best advantage, and to execute
wonders with bits of pink calico showing
through cheap muslin. As to her own bedroom,
she literally despoiled it, taking all the articles
that had any æsthetic pretensions at all up-stairs
to Miss Carrington's room, and leaving herself,
as Charlotte elegantly put it, "without a stick."
The room prepared for Miss Carrington
presented at last quite a pretty appearance, so
much will taste do in these cases even with a
very small expenditure of capital.

Altogether, it was a day of many fatigues
and difficulties, and besides all these, it was
necessary to get up some sort of meal for the
lady, and another for the dreaded servant, both
of whom were to arrive at about eight o'clock
in the evening. Moreover, the butcher did not
send what was required of him, and Charlotte
disappeared, as might have been expected, to
remind him of his neglect.

But the worst trouble of all that poor
Gabrielle had to bear that day, was her husband's
absence. He must be away at the time when
the formidable lady was to arrive. That evening
he had work to do at a newspaper office, and
work, in his case, could never be neglected. It
would be necessary, then, that Mrs. Penmore
should receive her new guest alone and
unsupported. Alone she must face this utter stranger,
and encounter all that might be awkward, or
even unpleasant, in connexion with this first
interview. There was nothing for it, however,
but to endure and go through it, so Gabrielle
made up her mind––a proceeding which enables
us to get through a great many things which
appear to be absolutely unendurable.

The day and part of the evening were
consumed in preparations, and it was not till the
time for the arrival of Miss Carrington drew
very near, that Mrs. Penmore found time at
last to sit down, almost for the first time that
day, and await with many nervous qualms the
arrival of her guest. The tea-things were spread
comfortably upon a white cloth, and there was
a fowl (awful extravagance) cooking at the fire
below. It had been discovered, at the eleventh
hour, that there was no fresh butter in the
house, and Charlotte had been despatched in
search of that luxury, so Gabrielle sat in an
agony of dread lest the new arrivals should
come before the wretched handmaid had
returned from her errand.

Of course it happened so. The Fates are
merciless in these cases, and Charlotte had not
returned from this, her last disappearance, when
Mrs. Penmore, who had been listening with
strained attention to every sound that came
from the street outside, distinctly heard the
rattle of wheels on the pavement, heard them
draw nearer and nearer, heard a female voice
screaming the number of the house to the
cabman, upon which the vehicle suddenly
stopped and drew up at the door, while a
furious peal at the street bell announced that
the hour had arrived which poor Gabrielle had
so long and so keenly dreaded.

And now there was nothing for it but to go
and open the door. The servant had not
returned, and it was quite impossible to keep her
visitor waiting outside. While she had hesitated,
the bell had sounded again, and it was still
ringing when she at length opened the door,
and found herself face to face with a middle-aged
female of a fierce and acid countenance,
who was standing on the door-step. Behind
her was a cab, the door of which was held open
by the driver, while a lady was dimly seen
within, waiting to emerge, till it had been
certainly ascertained that this was the right house.

"Does Mr. Penmore live here?" asked the
acid one.

Gabrielle answered timidly in the affirmative,
and she of the fierce visage having conveyed
the information to the lady in the cab, this last
descended without more ado and came into the
house. She looked sharply at Gabrielle, who
now advanced with extended hand, as if she
doubted her genuineness, and then, taking the
offered hand in a hesitating manner, exclaimed:

"What! are you Mrs. Penmore, and don't
you keep a servant?"

"Oh yes, we have a servant, but she was
obliged to go out on an errand just now. Pray
come in here and warm yourself," she added,
opening the dining-room door.

"Oh!" said Miss Carrington, with a little
scream, as she entered, "what a funny little
place."

"Funny!" what a terrible word that was.
The room was little, but it was neat. It was
even prettily arranged, but the furniture was
not of the conventional dining-room sort, and,
alas! it must be owned that, in the get-up of
that apartment, subterfuge was not unknown.
But to say "funny"––oh, that was a cruel
word.

Meanwhile the servant, for such was the acid
lady who had originally confronted Gabrielle on
the door-step, followed her mistress to the door
of the room, into which she looked for a
moment, and then, with a slight toss of the head,
she returned to superintend the unloading of
the cab, honouring Gabrielle as she passed with
a prolonged and exhaustive stare.

While the bumping and bursting noises
inseparable from the introduction of large luggage