for the
spending of our holiday; but really, when I think--"

"Well, my dear, `When you think,'--pray, go on."

"Don't be hasty, dear John; you know I have never objected to any place
you have hitherto fixed on. Herne Bay last year was charming, and the
year before we enjoyed Margate _so_ much. Even Worthing, though rather
too long a journey for a family, was delightful; and, as the family was
smaller then, we got over the journey on the whole better than could
have been expected. But Scotland!--the Highlands!"--Mr Sudberry's look
at this point induced his wife to come to a full stop. The look was not
a stern look,--much less a savage look, as connubial looks sometimes
are. It was an aggrieved look; not that he was aggrieved at the dubious
reception given by his spouse to the arrangement he had made;--no, the
sore point in his mind was that he himself entertained strong doubts, as
to the propriety of what he had done; and to find these doubts reflected
in the mind of his faithful better half was perplexing.

"Well, Mary," said the worthy merchant, "go on. Do you state the
_cons_, and I'll enumerate the _pros_, after which we will close the
account, and see on which side the balance lies."

"You know, dear," said Mrs Sudberry, in a remonstrative tone, "that the
journey is fearfully long. I almost tremble when I think of it. To be
sure, we have the railroad to Edinburgh now; but beyond that we shall
have to travel by stage, I suppose, at least I hope so; but perhaps they
have no stage-coaches in Scotland?"

"Oh, yes, they have a few, I believe," replied the merchant, with a
smile.

"Ah! that is fortunate; for wagons are fearfully trying. No, I really
think that I could _not_ stand a wagon journey after my experience of
the picnic at Worthing some years ago. Think of our large family--seven
of us altogether--in a wagon, John--"

"But you forget, I said that there _are_ stage-coaches in Scotland."

"Well; but think of the slow and wearisome travelling among great
mountains, over precipices, and through Scotch mists. Lady Knownothing
assures me she has been told that the rain never ceases in Scotland,
except for a short time in autumn, just to give the scanty crops time to
ripen. You know, dear, that our darling Jacky's health could never
stand the Scotch mists, he is so _very_, delicate."

"Why, Mary!" exclaimed Mr Sudberry, abruptly; "the doctor told me only
yesterday that for a boy of five years old