kely to know where to find the required utensil
than the cook herself. It is usually a temple dedicated to the goddess
of disorder; and, too often joined with her, is the potent deity of
dirt. It is not that things are out of their place, for they have no
place. It isn't that the floor is not scoured, for you cannot scour dry
mud into anything but wet mud. It isn't that the chairs and tables look
filthy, for there are none. It isn't that the pots, and plates, and
pans don't shine, for you see none to shine. All you see is a grimy,
black ceiling, an uneven clay floor, a small darkened window, one or
two unearthly-looking recesses, a heap of potatoes in the corner, a
pile of turf against the wall, two pigs and a dog under the single
dresser, three or four chickens on the window-sill, an old cock
moaning on the top of a rickety press, and a crowd of ragged garments,
squatting, standing, kneeling, and crouching, round the fire, from
which issues a babel of strange tongues, not one word of which is at
first intelligible to ears unaccustomed to such eloquence.

And yet, out of these unfathomable, unintelligible dens, proceed in due
time dinners, of which the appearance of them gives no promise. Such a
kitchen was Mrs. Kelly's; and yet, it was well known and attested by
those who had often tried the experiment, that a man need think it no
misfortune to have to get his dinner, his punch, and his bed, at the
widow's.

Above stairs were two sitting-rooms and a colony of bed-rooms, occupied
indiscriminately by the family, or by such customers as might require
them. If you came back to dine at the inn, after a day's shooting on
the bogs, you would probably find Miss Jane's work-box on the table, or
Miss Meg's album on the sofa; and, when a little accustomed to sojourn
at such places, you would feel no surprise at discovering their
dresses turned inside out, and hanging on the pegs in your bed-room;
or at seeing their side-combs and black pins in the drawer of your
dressing-table.

On the morning in question, the widow and her daughters were engaged
in the shop, putting up pen'norths of sugar, cutting bits of tobacco,
tying bundles of dip candles, attending to chance customers, and
preparing for the more busy hours of the day. It was evident that
something had occurred at the inn, which had ruffled the even tenor of
its way. The widow was peculiarly gloomy. Though fond of her children,
she was an autocrat in her house, and accust