to the bed, which itself is a turn-up; there is
no carpet but a 'bedside.' There is not a mossul
of fire, and, what is more, there is no grate to
put one in."

"Really, I think—" Miss Carrington
commenced in an injured tone, and addressing
Gabrielle. But Cantanker had not done yet.

"And hif Mrs. Penmore thinks," she went on,
still, however speaking to her mistress, "hif she
thinks that I am going to put up with a
dog-hole, and that I am come here tamely to be
insulted, she will find that she is mistaken, and
that Jane Cantanker is not the woman to be put
upon."

Here the lady relapsed into silence, and
stood looking defiance at a photographic
portrait of Mr. Penmore which hung against the
wall.

"I really think," resumed Miss Carrington,
"that you might have provided a little better
for the comfort of my servant, Mrs.
Penmore."

"I thought it was very comfortable," urged
the wretched Gabrielle. "I know that it is all
nice and clean, and as to the fire, I had no idea
that your servant would expect such a thing.
Surely it is very unusual."

"Jane Cantanker is more than a servant to
me. She is a companion, and I look upon any
slight put upon her as an injury done to myself."

"There is an apartment next to my
mistress's, and it is that which I should wish
to occupy," remarked Miss Cantanker,
sententiously, and still looking at the photograph.

"Oh, that is my husband's study," cried Mrs.
Penmore, aghast.

"Study or no study, that is the room which I
should wish to occupy," repeated Cantanker.

"Really," Miss Carrington remarked, with a
slight toss, "I think that studies are all very
well, but under the circumstances—when people
get a good price for their rooms—"

Gabrielle started at that sting, and the West
Indian element in her blood was all on fire.
But presently she remembered how much was
at stake, and called up her newly-formed
resolution to endure.

"If you could put up with it just at first,"
she said, "we might see afterwards what other
arrangement could be made."

But Miss Cantanker was not to be dealt with
so easily. She hastened to remind the assembled
company that she was not going to be put upon,
that to sleep in a dog-hole was a thing she would
not consent to do. Moreover, she stated that
she had never been so treated in the whole
course of her life, and this consideration appearing
to strike her in a piteous light, and to fill her
with great commiseration for herself, she finally
asserted that she did not think to have lived to
be thus cruelly dealt with, and bursting into a
volley of sobs, sank into a neighbouring chair,
and took to hysterics.

After this there was a great commotion.
Every consolatory topic was tried, and for a time
in vain, till it occurred to somebody—possibly
because the lady herself, with a glazed eye fixed
upon the decanter, stammered forth that "she
felt a sinking"—it occurred to somebody to
administer a glass of Marsala, followed by a
second, a course of treatment which was
attended with such success, that at last this
angelic martyr, after much flattery and cajolery,
so far gave way as to consent to occupy the
"dog-hole" for one night, and one night only,
on the condition, distinctly understood, that she
was never asked so much as to pass its detested
threshold again.

And this difficulty disposed of, there remained
the mistress to appease as well as the maid.
Miss Carrington did not like her room. It was
small and stuffy, and the pattern of the chintz
was hideous. Then there was no cheval-glass,
and that, mind, must be remedied the very next
day. The room had not a sunny aspect, a
condition of affairs which could not be remedied so
easily. Then the bed was not placed north and
south, and that was an unpardonable piece of
negligence, and must be set right at once,
though it implied the moving of every article
of furniture in the room. Moreover, she wished
for a night-light, and the unhappy Charlotte
had to be despatched at a late hour to get some.
Finally, she was very much disappointed that
there was no broth in the house, as she always
liked, not taking tea, to have a cup of broth the
last thing at night.

That night, when, at last, the house was
quiet, and her guests, for a time at least,
disposed of, poor Mrs. Penmore fell into a paroxysm
of bitter grief, and wept till her pillow was wet
with her tears. It was past three o'clock in
the morning when her husband came back, and
when she saw how tired and worn he looked,
and thought how much he went through for
her, she determined that at least for that night
lie should not be distressed by anything that
she could tell him. So as he leaned over the
bed and showed her the money that he had
earned, she put her arms about his neck and
smiled upon him, and told him how his cousin
had arrived, and how they had had a nice fowl
for supper, and a bottle of Marsala—as Miss
Carrington did not take tea—and how the lady
and her servant were both made comfortable for
the night.

WRITING FOR PERIODICALS.

IT is curious that, although periodical literature
is almost the daily bread of millions, the
popular mind should still be so ignorant of
many of the particulars of its production.

In the first place, it is supposed to be the
simplest thing in the world. The writers, the
editors, and the publishers, have no more trouble
in sending it out, than the subscriber has in
taking it in from the postman. It is the
spontaneous growth of progressing time. It comes
as regularly and naturally as Saturday and Sunday.
Like the ceaseless rivers, the beds are
there, and the water has nothing to do but to
flow. As certainly as sunrise is the consequence