ainly
not,' I shall reply, 'especially when it is Estaiblished!' Then he will
laugh, and we shall be better friends for a few moments; and then I
shall tell him my latest story about the Scotchman who prayed, 'Lord, I
do not ask that Thou shouldst give me wealth; only show me where it is,
and I will attend to the rest.'"

Salemina moaned at the delightful prospect opening before us, while I
went to the piano and carolled impersonally--

"Oh, wherefore did I cross the Forth,
And leave my love behind me?
Why did I venture to the north
With one that did not mind me?
I'm sure I've seen a better limb
And twenty better faces;
But still my mind it runs on him
When I am at the races!"

Francesca left the room at this, and closed the door behind her with
such energy that the bust of Sir Walter rocked on the hall shelf.
Running upstairs she locked herself in her bedroom, and came down again
only to help us receive Jane Grieve, who arrived at eight o'clock.

In times of joy Salemina, Francesca, and I occasionally have our
trifling differences of opinion, but in hours of affliction we are as
one flesh. An all-wise Providence sent us Jane Grieve for fear that we
should be too happy in Pettybaw. Plans made in heaven for the discipline
of sinful human flesh are always successful, and this was no exception.

We had sent a 'machine' from the inn to meet her, and when it drew up at
the door we went forward to greet the rosy little Jane of our fancy. An
aged person, wearing a rusty black bonnet and shawl, and carrying
what appeared to be a tin cake-box and a baby's bath-tub, descended
rheumatically from the vehicle and announced herself as Miss Grieve. She
was too old to call by her Christian name, too sensitive to call by her
surname, so Miss Grieve she remained, as announced, to the end of the
chapter, and our rosy little Jane died before she was actually born. The
man took her grotesque luggage into the kitchen, and Salemina escorted
her thither, while Francesca and I fell into each other's arms and
laughed hysterically.

"Nobody need tell me that she is Mrs. M'Collop's sister's husband's
niece," she whispered, "although she may possibly be somebody's
grand-aunt. Doesn't she remind you of Mrs. Gummidge?"

Salemina returned in a quarter of an hour, and sank dejectedly on the
sofa.

"Run over to the inn, Francesca" she said, "and order bacon and eggs
at eight-thirty to-morrow morning. Miss Grie