certain there wasn't a happier spinster in this 'Piljin
Projess of a wale,' than the one who partook of 'weal pie' in memory of
Sam Weller, and drank 'a modest quencher' to the health of Dick
Swiveller at the end of that delightful Dickens day.

Much might be written about the domestic pleasures of English people,
but as the compiler of this interesting work believes in the sacredness
of private life, and has a holy horror of the dreadful people who
outrage hospitality by basely reporting all they have seen and heard,
she will practise what she preaches, and firmly resist the temptation to
describe the delights of country strolls with poets, cosey five-o'clock
teas in famous drawing-rooms, and interviews with persons whose names
are household words.

This virtuous reticence leaves the best untold, and brings the story of
two of our travellers to a speedy end. Matilda decided to remain and
study art, spending her days copying Turner at the National Gallery, and
her evenings in the society of the eight agreeable gentlemen who adorned
the house where she abode.

Amanda hurried home with friends to enjoy a festive summer among the
verdant plains of Cape Cod. With deep regret did her mates bid her
adieu, and nothing but the certainty of soon embracing her again would
have reconciled Livy to the parting; for in Amanda she had found that
rare and precious treasure, a friend.

'Addio, my beloved Granny; take care of your dear bones and come home
soon,' said Amanda, in the little back entry, while her luggage was
being precipitated downstairs.

'Heaven bless and keep you safe, my own Possum. I shall not stay long
because I can't possibly get on without you,' moaned Livy, clinging to
the departing treasure as Diogenes might have clung to his honest man,
if he ever found him; for, with better luck than the old philosopher,
Livy had searched long years for a friend to her mind, and got one at
last.

'Don't be sentimental, girls' said Matilda, with tears in her eyes, as
she hugged her Mandy, and bore her to the cab.

'Rome and Raphael for ever!' cried Amanda, as a cheerful parting salute.

'London and Turner!' shouted Matilda with her answering war-cry.

'Boston and Emerson!' sobbed Lavinia, true to her idols even in the
deepest woe.

Then three damp pocket-handkerchiefs waved wildly till the dingy cab
with the dear Egyptian nose at the window, and the little bath-pan
clattering frantically up aloft, vanished round the