ces. Do you know that he has become a shopman in the
bird-shop of my dear old friend Mr Blurt, who is very ill--has been
ill, I should have said,--were you aware of that?"

"No," answered May, in a low tone.

"I thought he came to England by the invitation of Sir Somebody
Something, who had good prospects for him. Did not you?"

"So I thought," said May, turning her face away from the light.

"It is very strange," continued Miss Lillycrop, giving a few hasty
touches to her cap and hair; "and do you know, I could not help thinking
that there was something queer about his appearance? I can scarce tell
what it was. It seemed to me like--like--but it is disagreeable even to
think about such things in connection with one who is such a fine,
clever, gentlemanly fellow--but--"

Fortunately for poor May, her friend was suddenly stopped by a shout
from the outer room.

"Hallo, ladies! how long are you goin' to be titivatin' yourselves?
There ain't no company comin'. The sausages are on the table, and the
old 'ooman's gittin' so impatient that she's beginnin' to abuse the
cat."

This last remark was too true and sad to be passed over in silence. Old
Mrs Flint's age had induced a spirit of temporary oblivion as to
surroundings, which made her act, especially to her favourite cat, in a
manner that seemed unaccountable. It was impossible to conceive that
cruelty could actuate one who all her life long had been a very pattern
of tenderness to every living creature. When therefore she suddenly
changed from stroking and fondling her cat to pulling its tail, tweaking
its nose, slapping its face, and tossing it off her lap, it is only fair
to suppose that her mind had ceased to be capable of two simultaneous
thoughts, and that when it was powerfully fixed on sausages she was not
aware of what her hands were doing to the cat.

"You'll excuse our homely arrangements, Miss Lillycrop," said Mr Flint,
as he helped his guest to the good things on the table. "I never could
get over a tendency to a rough-and-ready sort o' feedin'. But you'll
find the victuals good."

"Thank you, Mr Flint. I am sure you must be very tired after the long
walks you take. I can't think how postmen escape catching colds when
they have such constant walking in all sorts of weather."

"It's the constancy as saves us, ma'am, but we don't escape altogether,"
said Flint, heaping large supplies on his grandmother's plate. "We
often kitch colds, but