vingstone's
first impulse was to strike it from her mother's hand, but knowing
how unladylike that would be, she restrained herself, and turning
away her head, replied, "Ugh! no! The very sight of it makes me
sick."

"How you do talk! Wall, I've seen folks that it sarved jest so; but
you'll get over it. Now there was Nancy Scovandyke--did John ever
say anything about her? Wall, she couldn't bear snuff till after her
disappointment--John told you, I suppose?"

"No, madam, my husband has never told me anything concerning his
eastern friends, neither do I wish to hear anything of them,"
returned Mrs. Livingstone, her patience on the point of giving out.

"Never told you nothin' about Nancy Scovandyke! If that don't beat
all! Why, he was----"

She was prevented from finishing the sentence, which would
undoubtedly have raised a domestic breeze, when Anna came to tell her
that the trunks were carried to her room.

"I'll come right up then," said she, adding, more to herself than any
one else, "If I ain't mistaken, I've got a little paper of saffron
somewhere, which I mean to steep for 'Tilda. Her skin looks desput
jandissy!"

When Mr. Livingstone again entered his wife's room, he found her in a
collapsed state of anger and mortification.

"_John_ Nichols," said she, with a strong emphasis on the first word,
which sounded very much like _Jarn_, "do you mean to kill me by
bringing that vulgar, ignorant thing here, walking into my room
without knocking--calling me '_Tilda_, and prating about Nancy
somebody----"

John started. His wife knew nothing of his _affaire du coeur_ with
Miss Nancy, and for his own peace of mind 't was desirable that she
should not. Mentally resolving to give her a few hints, he
endeavored to conciliate his wife, by saying that he knew "his mother
was troublesome, but she must try not to notice her oddities."

"I wonder how I can help it, when she forces herself upon me
continually," returned his wife. "I must either deep the doors
locked, or live in constant terror."

"It's bad, I know," said he, smoothing her glossy hair, "but then,
she's old, you know. Have you seen 'Lena?"

"No, neither do I wish to, if she's at all like her grandmother,"
answered Mrs. Livingstone.

"She's handsome," suggested Mr. Livingstone.

"Pshaw! handsome!" repeated his wife, scornfully, while he replied,
"Yes, handsomer than either of our daughters, and with the same
advantages, I've no doubt she'd