rthwith to the
Half-Way House, and there deluged with such a perfect torrent of
brow-beating eloquence as to reduce him to an imbecile state, in which
condition he would willingly order large bills of goods, a custom still
somewhat in vogue, and known as "commanding trade."

At other times, it was refreshing to see a drummer emerge from a week's
carousal, take a drink of plain soda, and write a long letter to his
employers concerning the extreme dulness of trade.

But since the new hotel had been built the Half-Way House had waned, and
its quiet was only invaded by an occasional straggling traveller or a
runaway couple, and its walls resounded with nothing more clamorous than
the orgies of a Sunday-school picnic.

It is, however, with the Ladies' Parlor only (that wretched abode of
female discomfort in all country hotels) that we have to do.

The furniture of the room consisted of the articles usually found in a
_boudoir_ of this kind, to wit: a straight-backed sofa, much worn; the
inevitable and horrid straw carpeting; that old Satanic piano, that
never was in tune; an antique and rheumatic table, and three wheezy old
chairs. The only present attempts at ornament were two in number. The
first was a large engraving of the Presidents of the United States,
which had formerly done duty in the bar-room, where the villagers were
wont to gaze upon it in an awe-struck manner, being impressed with a
vague idea that it was CHRISTY'S Minstrels. The second was a living
statue, none other than ANN BRUMMET waiting for JEFFRY MAULBOY.

"Half-past three, and not come yet," said she. "Look out, JEFFRY
MAULBOY, for if you _do_ go back on me"--

She paused, for she saw a man coming towards the house.

"Well, if that ain't ARCHIBALD BLINKSOP," she added, "I'm regularly
sold. What can _he_ want _here_?"

Yes, it was ARCHIBALD sure enough, biting his finger-nails and breathing
very short, while he cast furtive glances at the windows.

He went slowly up the steps and into the entry just as Mrs. BACKUP, the
landlady of the House, came out of her sitting-room.

Now, Mrs. BACKUP was one of your eminently respectable females, who are
always loaded to the muzzle with Beautiful Moral Essays, which they try
to cram down everybody's throat, but never practise themselves. She
formerly kept a boarding-house in the city, where, at table regularly
after soup, she would regale those present with long dissertations on
the shocking immorality of