these fillets, these kidneys, these gravy
beefs!"

My wife shook her head, exactly as the
cook had shaken hers; and answered, precisely
as the cook had answered, " Mrs. Bullwinkle."

"But where does she hide it all?" I exclaimed.

My wife shut her eyes, and shuddered.

"Oh, John! " she said. " I have privately
consulted the doctor; and the doctor says
Mrs. Bullwinkle is a Cow."

"If the doctor had to pay these bills," I
retorted savagely, " he would not be quite so
free with his jokes."

"He is in earnest, dear. He explained to
me, what I never knew before, that a Cow is
an animal with many stomachs—"

"What! " I cried out, in amazement,
"do you mean to tell me that all these
joints, these chops, these steaks, these fillets,
these kidneys, these gravy beefs—these
loaves, these muffins, these mixed biscuits—
these teas, these sugars, these brandies, gins,
sherries and beers, have disappeared in one
week, down Mrs. Bullwinkle's throat?"

"All, John," said my wife, sinking back on
the pillow with a groan.

It was impossible to look at the bills and
believe it. I questioned and cross-questioned
my wife, and still elicited nothing but the one
bewildering answer, "All, John." Determined
—for I am a man of a logical and judicial
mind—to have this extraordinary and
alarming case properly investigated, I took
out my pocket-book and pencil, and asked my
wife if she felt strong enough to make a few
private entries for my satisfaction. Finding
that she willingly accepted the responsibility,
I directed her to take down, from her own
personal investigation, a statement of Mrs.
Bullwinkle's meals, and of the time at which
she partook of each one of them, for twenty-four
hours, beginning with one morning and
ending with another. Having made this
arrangement, I descended to the parlour, and
took the necessary business measures for using
the cook as a check upon her mistress. Having
carefully instructed her to enter, on the
kitchen slate, everything that was sent up to
Mrs. Bullwinkle, for twenty-four hours, I felt
that my machinery for investigating the truth
was now complete. If the statement of the
mistress, in bed on the second floor, agreed
with the statement of the cook, in the distant
sphere of the kitchen, there could then be no
doubt that I had obtained a perfectly correct
statement on the mysterious subject of Mrs.
Bullwinkle's meals.

In due time, the two Reports were sent in,
and I had an opportunity of understanding
at last, what " eating little and often " really
meant, in the case of my wife's monthly nurse.
Except in one particular, to be hereafter
adverted to, both statements agreed exactly.
Here is the List, accompanied by a correct
time-table, of Mrs. Bullwinkle's meals, beginning
with the morning of Monday and ending
with the morning of Tuesday. I certify, on
my word of honour as a British husband and
housekeeper, that the copy is correctly taken
from my wife's entries in my pocket-book,
checked impartially by the cook's slate:

A.M.

7.  Breakfast.—Tea, Toast, Half-quartern Loaf,
Butter, Eggs, Bacon.

9.30.  First Morning Snack.—A glass of pale Sherry,
and a plate of Mixed Biscuits.

11.  Second Morning Snack.—A Basin of Beef Tea,
and a Tumbler of Brandy and Water.

12.45.  Dinner.—A Roast Loin of Mutton and Mashed
Potatoes. With Dinner, Ale, spiced and
warmed. After Dinner, a tumbler of Hot
Gin and Water.

P.M.

3.  Afternoon Snack.—A glass of pale Sherry, and
a plate of Mixed Biscuits.

4.30.  Tea and Muffins.

7.  Evening Snack.—Stewed Cheese, Toast, and
a tumbler of Brandy and Water.

9.  Supper.—Nice juicy Steak, and two glasses of
Beer. Second Course.—Stewed Cheese,
and a tumbler of Gin and Water.

ADDITIONAL PARTICULARS. (Not vouched for
by the cook's slate.)—During the night
of Monday Mrs. Bullwinkle partook, at
intervals, of Caudle. At 4.30, A.M, on
the morning of Tuesday my wife was
awakened by hearing the nurse walking
up and down the room, and sighing bitterly.
The following conversation then
took place between them:
My Wife.—Are you ill?
Mrs. Bullwinkle.—No. Hungry.

I can certify that the above List correctly,
and even moderately, represents Mrs. Bullwinkle's
daily bill of fare, for one month. I
can assert, from my own observation, that
every dish, at every hour of the day, which
went up to her full, invariably came down
from her empty. Mrs. Bullwinkle was not a
wasteful eater. She could fully appreciate,
in roast meat, for example, the great value
of "lean; " but she was not, on that account,
insensible to the humbler merits of fat, skin,
and "outside." All—emphatically, all—was
fish that came to her net; and the net
itself, as I can personally testify, was never
once over-weighted and never out of order. I
have watched, in the case of this perfectly unparalleled
human cormorant, for symptoms
of apoplexy, or at least of visible repletion,
with a dreadful and absorbing interest; and
have, on no occasion, been rewarded by
making the smallest discovery. Mrs. Bullwinkle
was never, while in my service, even
so much as partially intoxicated. Her face
was never flushed; her articulation was never
thickened; her brain was never confused;
her movements were never uncertain. After
the breakfast, the two morning snacks, and
the dinner,—all occurring within the space
of six hours,—she could move about the room
with unimpeded freedom of action; could