corner and moans. The bolder Englishman (I am told) will write a love-chapter and then go out, quite coolly, to dinner, but such goings on are contrary to the Scotch nature; even the great novelists dared not. Conceive Mr. Stevenson left alone with a hero, a heroine, and a proposal impending (he does not know where to look). Sir Walter in the same circumstances gets out of the room by making his love-scenes take place between the end of one chapter and the beginning of the next, but he could afford to do anything, and the small fry must e'en to their task, moan the dog as he may. So I have yoked to mine when, enter my mother, looking wistful.
"I suppose you are terrible thrang," she says.
"Well, I am rather busy, but—what is it you want me to do?"
"It would be a shame to ask you."
"Still, ask me."
"I am so terrified they may be filed."
"You want me to—"
"If you would just come up, and help me to fold the sheets!"
The sheets are folded and I return to Albert. I lock the door and at last I am bringing my hero forward nicely (my knee in the small of his back), when this startling question is shot by my sister through the keyhole:
"Where did you put the carrot-grater?"
