s of the elect.

Very surreptitiously the Prophet tripped across the hall and reached
the stout door which gave access to the servants' quarters. But here he
paused. Although he had lived in Mrs. Merillia's most comfortable home
for at least fifteen years, he had actually never once penetrated
beyond this door. It had never occurred to him to do so. Often he had
approached it. Quite recently, when Mrs. Fancy Quinglet had broken
into tears on the refusal of Sir Tiglath Butt to burst according to
her prediction, he had handed her to this very portal. But he had never
passed through it, nor did he know what lay beyond. No doubt there was
a kitchen, very probably the mysterious region of watery activities
commonly known as a scullery, quite certainly a butler's pantry. But
where each separate sanctum lay, and what should be the physiognomy of
each one the Prophet had not the vaguest idea. As he turned the handle
of the door he felt like Sir Henry Stanley, when that intrepid explorer
first set foot among the leafy habitations of the dwarfs.

As the door opened the Prophet found himself in a large apartment whose
walls were decorated with the efforts of those great painters who feed
the sentimental imaginations of the masses in the beautiful Christmas
numbers of our artistic day. Enchanting little girls and exceedingly
human dogs observed his entrance from every hand, while such penetrating
and suggestive legends as "Don't bite!" "Mustn't!" "Naughty!" "Would
'ums?" and the like, filled his mind with the lofty thoughts so suitable
to the Christmas season. Over the mantelpiece was a _Cook's Almanac for
the Home_, decorated in bright colours, a _Butler's own book_, bound
in claret-coloured linen, and a large framed photograph of Francatelli,
that immortal _chef_ whose memory is kept green in so many kitchens, and
whose recipes are still followed as are followed the footprints of the
great ones in the Everlasting Sands of Time. One corner of the room
Gustavus had made his own, and here might be seen his tasteful what-not
and his little library--neatly arranged unabridged farthing editions
of Drummond's _Ascent of Man_, Mill's _Liberty_, Crampton's _Origin of
Self-Respect_, Barlow's _A Philosophical Examination into the Art and
Practice of Tipping and Receiving Tips_, and other volumes suitable
for an intellectual footman's reading. An eight-day clock, which was
carefully and lovingly wound up by the prudent Mrs. Fancy Quinglet ev