witnessed the somewhat unusual
spectacle of my nut-brown mayde hopping on one foot, like a divine stork,
and ever and anon emitting a feminine shriek as her off foot, clad in a
delicate silk stocking, came in contact with the ground. I rose quickly,
and, polishing the patent leather ostentatiously, inside and out, with my
handkerchief, I offered it to her with distinguished grace. She swayed
on her one foot with as much dignity as possible, and then recognizing me
as the person who picked up the contents of aunt Celia's bag, she said,
dimpling in the most distracting manner (that's another thing there ought
to be a law against), "Thank you again; you seem to be a sort of
knight-errant!"

"Shall I--assist you?" I asked. (I might have known that this was going
too far.)

"No, thank you," she said, with polar frigidity. "Good-afternoon." And
she hopped back to her aunt Celia without another word.

I don't know how to approach aunt Celia. She is formidable. By a
curious accident of feature, for which she is not in the least
responsible, she always wears an unfortunate expression as of one
perceiving some offensive odor in the immediate vicinity. This may be a
mere accident of high birth. It is the kind of nose often seen in the
"first families," and her name betrays the fact that she is of good old
Knickerbocker origin. We go to Wells to-morrow. At least I think we do.

SHE

GLOUCESTER, _June_ 9
The Spread Eagle.

I met him at Wells, and again at Bath. We are always being ridiculous,
and he is always rescuing us. Aunt Celia never really sees him, and thus
never recognizes him when he appears again, always as the flower of
chivalry and guardian of ladies in distress. I will never again travel
abroad without a man, even if I have to hire one from a Feeble-Minded
Asylum. We work like galley slaves, aunt Celia and I, finding out about
trains and things. Neither of us can understand Bradshaw, and I can't
even grapple with the lesser intricacies of the A B C railway guide. The
trains, so far as I can see, always arrive before they go out, and I can
never tell whether to read up the page or down. It is certainly very
queer that the stupidest man that breathes, one that barely escapes
idiocy, can disentangle a railway guide, when the brightest woman fails.