rlota entered from an inner room.

"I wish, my dear, you would see about the dinner," said the Major; "'tis
a quarter past three."

"_Si, mi vida_" (yes, my life), said Carlota, who was in the habit
of bestowing lavishly on my grandfather the most endearing epithets
in the Spanish language, some of them, perhaps, not particularly
applicable--_nino de mi alma_ (child of my soul), _luz de mis ojos_
(light of my eyes), and the like; none of which appeared to have any
more effect on the object of them than if they had been addressed to
somebody else.

Carlota rung the bell, which nobody answered. "Nurse is busy with de
_nina_," she said, when nobody answered it; "I go myself to de
_cocina_" (kitchen)--she spoke English as yet but imperfectly.

"There's one comfort in delay," said the Major; "'tis better to boil a
ham too much than too little--and yet I shouldn't like it overdone
either."

Here they were alarmed by an exclamation from Carlota. "_Ah Dios!
Caramba! Ven, ven, mi nino!_" cried she from the kitchen.

The Major and Owen hastened to the kitchen, which was so close at hand
that the smell of the dinner sometimes anticipated its appearance in the
dining-room. Mrs Bags, the new cook, was seated before the fire. On the
table beside her was an empty champagne bottle, the fellow to which
protruded its neck from a pail in one corner, where the Major had put it
to cool; and another bottle of more robust build, about half-full, was
also beside her. The countenance of Mrs Bags wore a pleasant and
satisfied, though not very intelligent smile, as she gazed steadfastly
on the ham that was roasting on a spit before the fire--at least one
side of it was done quite black, while the other oozed with warm grease;
for the machinery which should have turned it was not in motion.

"_Caramba!_" exclaimed Carlota, with uplifted hands. "_Que
picarilla!_"--(What a knave of a woman!)

"Gracious heavens!" said my grandfather, "she's roasting it! Who ever
heard of a roast ham?"

"A many years," remarked Mrs Bags, without turning her head, and still
smiling pleasantly, "have I lived in gentlemen's families--" Here this
fragment of autobiography was terminated by a hiccup.

"And the champagne bottle is empty," said Owen, handling it. "A nice
sort of cook this of yours, Major. She seems to have constituted herself
butler, too."

My grandfather advanced and lifted the other bottle to his nose. "'Tis
the old rum," he ejaculated with a