have grown during my two hours journey in
the train.

In my little sleeping-room I was quite
overwhelmed by this sensation, and looked
with some dismay at the little white bed, in
which I should certainly have discovered by
experience what are the feelings of a bodkin
in a bodkin-case, had it not proved so
deliciously soft. There was a pretty pale brown
paper on the walls, blossoming with bunches
of pink flowers (of a kind unknown to
botanists); there was a picture representing
Hubert the jailor, with legs like walking-
sticks, in the act of seizing an instrument
strongly resembling a poker, and exclaiming
"Heat me these irons! " evidently
a work of youthful genius, carefully framed
and glazed for everlasting preservation.
There was a coloured print, representing
a lady and gentleman and a child, with pink
cheeks and short waists, walking with three
cows near a stream and a ruined castle, and
labelled "connubial bliss." There was a difficulty
in getting round the bed without knocking
down the towel-stand, breaking the looking-
glass, and upsetting the fire-irons. My
trunk was pushed into the only available
corner behind the door; so that when I wanted
to open the trunk I must shut the door, and
when I wanted to open the door I must shut
the trunk; and, finally, there was myself,
standing at the foot of the bed, and feeling a
great deal too large for it.

Miss Oldtown's household is Susan, the little
maid-of-all-work—and, let me tell you, that a
maid-of-all-work is the highest domestic official
known in Knollington High Street, and that
Susan is quite a pattern to her class. She is
a pretty little country girl, very black-eyed
and very red-cheeked, very brisk and very
fresh, and terribly quick and energetic. She
gets up every morning at an incredible hour,
and picks up all the country news from the
milkman, and all the town news from the
postman, which she retails to her mistress at
all convenient times. Miss Oldtown herself
is the daughter of a clergyman, at whose
death, she was turned loose on the world,
with a very limited independence. She chose
sixty-three, Knollington High Street, as her
place of abode because it was near the scene
of her father's labours, and she was well-
known and respected there. None of her new
neighbours ventured to call upon her, so she
has the satisfaction of knowing that they are
conscious of her grandeur and superiority,
and of looking down on them all from
inaccessible heights of gentility. This she does
pretty frequently through her plate-glass
drawing-room window, where she spends the
greater part of her life. She knows everyone
"by sight;" but deems none worthy of closer
acquaintance, for, as she says, ''though her
name is not in the peerage (a peculiarity
which she shares with a good many other
people), she is not a hairdresser nor a lawyer's
clerk." This is an allusion to the occupants
of the two doll's houses opposite; in whose
proceedings Miss Oldtown, nevertheless, feels
much interest. She knows when they dine,
and what they have for dinner; when they get
up, and when they go to bed. There is, however,
a mystery in the life of the lawyer's clerk
and his dashing, black-ringleted bride which
Miss Oldtown cannot penetrate. It is this:
they are constantly getting into flys at about
six o'clock in the evening, attired in Sunday
clothes and white kid gloves, and not coming
home till daylight doth appear—so Miss Oldtown
declares. We see them sometimes at
their drawing-room window; but they never
appear in the front garden—Miss Oldtown
supposes, because the back one, being more
sheltered and private, offers greater facilities
for kissing—she hopes the hairdresser's young
family, next door, are not witnesses of these
scenes (for she calls kissing "scenes "). This
hairdresser is a very dignified gentleman, of
whom Miss Oldtown has bought her fronts
for the last ten years. Every afternoon, at
about five o'clock, he leaves his shop and
repairs to the little house opposite number
sixty-three, where he keeps his innumerable
children. He does not seem to practise his
art upon their hair, for it is always in more
curlpapers than I would undertake to count;
except on Sundays, when the curls appear
without the paper, and flow over dresses of
unparalleled splendour. Miss Oldtown says
it is very bad taste in them to make such a
grand display at church, but I think that the
lavender silk which she wears on Sundays,
although it is so shabby and crumpled, is her
best dress.

The only person Miss Oldtown thoroughly
approves of is her landlord. He is quite a
young man—a chemist's shop-boy, and the
son of a late retired and ambitious butcher.
Miss Oldtown says he is very gentlemanly;
but he is a little too gentlemanly for me, and
rather overpowers me with his respect and
politeness. He keeps himself awfully stiff,
and never smiles, and continually lets off the
word madam, like a minute-gun, or a royal
salute, when he speaks to you. I hope a
tender sentiment for this young man may not
be sprouting in Miss Oldtown's sensitive
bosom—she is certainly very careful of his
property, and she sends bones every evening
to his dog—"Love me, love my dog." Dear
me! Really it is rather alarming.

Next to looking out of the window, Miss
Oldtown's greatest delight is in dusting and
rubbing up the drawing-room furniture,
which she does at odd moments all day long.
The fact is, the room is so very small that
everything in it is quite close to the window;
so that she cannot help seeing the least little
spot that rests upon anything, and then off
she trots for the duster and wipes it away.
The first thing to be done every morning,
however, is to go out marketing; but before
we start, a great ceremony has to be gone
through. First, Susan is called up, and