me to curl most delicately on his fork. He used it like an epicure,
poking his viands apart for sharpest scrutiny. His nod upon a compote was
much esteemed.

Now mark his further decline! On an occasion--surely the old rascal's head
is turned!--he would be found in private talk with his hostess, the Lady of
Middlesex, or with the Countess of Monmouth, not as you might expect, on
the properties of fire or on the mortal diseases of man, but--on subjects
quite removed. Society, we may be sure, began to whisper of these snug
parleys in the arbor after dinner, these shadowed mumblings on the balcony
when the moon was up--and Lady Digby stiffened into watchfulness. It was
when they took leave that she saw the Countess slip a note into her lord's
fingers. Her jealousy broke out. "Viper!" She spat the words and seized her
husband's wrist. Of course the note was read. It proved, however, that Sir
Kenelm was innocent of all mischief. To the disappointment of the gossips,
who were tuned to a spicier anticipation, the note was no more than a
recipe of the manner that the Countess was used to mix her syllabub, with
instruction that it was the "rosemary a little bruised and the limon-peal
that did quicken the taste." Advice, also, followed in the postscript on
the making of tea, with counsel that "the boiling water should remain upon
it just so long as one might say a _miserere_." A mutual innocence being
now established, the Lady Digby did by way of apology peck the Countess on
the cheek.

Sir Kenelm died in 1665, full of years. In that day his fame rested chiefly
on his books in physic and chirurgery. His most enduring work was still to
be published--"The Closet Opened."

It was two years after his death that his son came upon a bundle of his
father's papers that had hitherto been overlooked. I fancy that he went
spying in the attic on a rainy day. In the darkest corner, behind the
rocking horse--if such devices were known in those distant days--he came
upon a trunk of his father's papers. "Od's fish," said Sir Kenelm's son,
"here's a box of manuscripts. It is like that they pertain to alchemy or
chirurgery." He pulled out a bundle and held it to the light--such light as
came through the cobwebs of the ancient windows. "Here be strange matters,"
he exclaimed. Then he read aloud: "My Lord of Bristol's Scotch collops are
thus made: Take a leg of fine sweet mutton, that to make it tender, is
kept as long as possible may be without st