in the rent of the apartment, and the piano may not
be taken away to-morrow to enhance the attractions of the dining-room
floor." (It was Francesca, you remember, who had 'warstled' with the
itemised accounts at Smith's Private Hotel in London, and she who was
always obliged to turn pounds, shillings, and pence into dollars and
cents before she could add or subtract.)

"Come and look at the flowers in my bedroom," I called, "four great
boxes full! Mr. Beresford must have ordered the carnations, because he
always does; but where did the roses come from, I wonder?"

I rang the bell, and a neat white-aproned maid appeared.

"Who brought these flowers, please?"

"I cudna say, mam."

"Thank you; will you be good enough to ask Mrs. M'Collop?"

In a moment she returned with the message, "There will be a letter in
the box, mam."

"It seems to me the letter should be in the box now, if it is ever to
be," I thought, and I presently drew this card from among the fragrant
buds:--

'Lady Baird sends these Scotch roses as a small return for the pleasure
she has received from Miss Hamilton's pictures. Lady Baird will give
herself the pleasure of calling to-morrow; meantime she hopes that Miss
Hamilton and her party will dine with her some evening this week.'

"How nice!" exclaimed Salemina.

"The celebrated Miss Hamilton's undistinguished party presents its
humble compliments to Lady Baird," chanted Francesca, "and having no
engagements whatever, and small hope of any, will dine with her on any
and every evening she may name. Miss Hamilton's party will wear its best
clothes, polish its mental jewels, and endeavour in every possible way
not to injure the gifted Miss Hamilton's reputation among the Scottish
nobility."

I wrote a hasty note of thanks to Lady Baird, and rang the bell.

"Can I send a message, please?" I asked the maid.

"I cudna say, mam."

"Will you be good enough to ask Mrs. M'Collop, please?"

Interval; then:--

"The Boots will tak' it at seeven o'clock, mam."

"Thank you; is Fotheringay Crescent near here?"

"I cudna say, mam."

"Thank you; what is your name, please?"

I waited in well-grounded anxiety, for I had no idea that she knew her
name, or that if she had ever heard it, she could say it; but, to my
surprise, she answered almost immediately, "Susanna Crum, mam!"

What a joy it is in a vexatious world, where things 'gang aft agley,' to
find something absolutely right.

If I had devote