always call so rough, who would have
_dreamed_ of letting a lady carry a parcel for herself, when he was by
to take it. There! I am better now! I _had_ to tell you; I wish you
good-day!"

CHAPTER XIII.

"If he does not like it," say I, setting it on the floor, and regarding
it from a little distance, with my head on one side, while friendly
criticism and admiration meet in happy wedlock in my eyes, "I can give
it to you; I had much rather make you a present than _him_."

"Then Heaven grant that it may find disfavor in his sight!" says Sir
Roger, piously.

We are talking of the traveling-bag, which at last, in despair of any
thing suitable occurring to my mind, I have bought, and now regard with
a sort of apprehensive joy. The blinds are half lowered for the heat,
but, through them and under them, the broad gold sunshine is streaming
and pushing itself, washing the careful twists of my flax hair, the
bag's stout red leather sides, and Sir Roger's nose, as he leans over
it, with manly distrust, trying the clasp by many searching snappings.

"I never gave you a present in my life--never--did I?" say I, squatting
down on the floor beside him, crumpling my nice crisp muslin frock with
the recklessness of a woman who knows that there are many more such
frocks in the cupboard, and to whom this knowledge has but newly come;
"never mind! next birthday I will give you one--a really nice, handsome,
rather expensive one--all bought with your own money, too--there!"

This is on the morning of our last day in Dresden. Yes! _to-morrow_ we
set off homeward. Our wedding-tour is nearly ended: tyrant Custom, which
sent us off, permits us to rejoin our fellows. Well, it really has not
been so bad! I do not know that I should care to have it over
again--that is, just immediately; but it has gone off very well
altogether--quite as well as most other people's, I fancy. These are my
thoughts in the afternoon, as (Sir Roger having gone to the post-office,
and I having made myself very hot by superintending the packing of the
presents--most of them of a brittle, _crackable_ nature) I am leaning,
to cool myself, over our balcony, and idly watching the little events
that are happening under my nose. The omnibus stands, as usual, in the
middle of the square, about to start for Blasewitz. Mysterious 'bus!
always about to start--always full of patient passengers, and that yet
was never seen by mortal man to set off. As I watch it with t