lovely creatures, who seemed to be dying before her very eyes. She looked round the desolate rooms, uncurtained and uncarpeted; the evenings were now damp and chilly, but no fire could be lighted in the empty fireplaces—all was misery and discomfort.
Mrs. Palmer left the room abruptly, and returned home. She found Mr. Palmer slippered and arm-chaired, only waiting her appearance to ring for the scalloped oysters: he adhered almost as a duty to what he called the "good old fashion of suppers." A few words put the scalloped oysters aside for the present, and he entered warmly into the plans of his kind-hearted wife. Servants, blankets, and carriage were alike put in requisition, and, before they sat down to the scalloped oysters, the three girls were safely in bed beneath their hospitable roof, and Mr. Carew, in whom Mrs. Palmer had unlimited confidence, had seen them.
"So much for your fine lady-mother," said Mr. Palmer, as he sat down to supper; "you must write to her, my dear, to-morrow, and then I suppose we shall have her here in hysterics, worrying our very lives out."
He was never more mistaken in any supposition. Mrs. Palmer did write the next day what she flattered herself was a masterpiece—she piqued herself upon her letter-writing. As she was wont to observe, "all the young ladies of Claver House wrote such excellent letters." The idea of writing such excellent letters, being that of making the smallest possible quan-
