ld be
frank, he said, and acknowledge that it suggested an undisciplined and
lawless habit of thought, a disregard for authority, a lack of reverence
for tradition, and a riotous and unbridled imagination.

This view of the matter gave us exquisite enjoyment.

"But why?" I asked laughingly. "The dressing-table is not a sacred
object, even to a woman. Why treat it with such veneration? Where there
is but one good light, and that immediately in front of the window,
there is every excuse for the British custom, but when the light is well
diffused, why not place the table where-ever it looks well?"

"Ah, but it doesn't look well anywhere but back to the window," said Mr.
Macdonald artlessly. "It belongs there, you see; it has probably been
there since the time of Malcolm Canmore, unless Margaret was too pious
to look in a mirror. With your national love of change, you cannot
conceive how soothing it is to know that whenever you enter your gate
and glance upward, you will always see the curtains parted, and between
them, like an idol in a shrine, the ugly wooden back of a little oval
or oblong looking-glass. It gives one a sense of permanence in a world
where all is fleeting."

The public interest in our doings seems to be entirely of a friendly
nature, and if our neighbours find a hundredth part of the charm and
novelty in us that we find in them, they are fortunate indeed, and we
cheerfully sacrifice our privacy on the altar of the public good.

A village in Scotland is the only place I can fancy where housekeeping
becomes an enthralling occupation. All drudgery disappears in a rosy
glow of unexpected, unique, and stimulating conditions. I would rather
superintend Miss Grieve, and cause the light of amazement to gleam
ten times daily in her humid eye, than lead a cotillion with Willie
Beresford. I would rather do the marketing for our humble breakfasts and
teas, or talk over the day's luncheons and dinners with Mistress Brodie
of the Pettybaw Inn and Posting Establishment, than go to the opera.

Salemina and Francesca do not enjoy it all quite as intensely as I, so
they considerately give me the lion's share. Every morning, after an
exhilarating interview with the Niobe of our kitchen (who thinks me
irresponsible, and prays Heaven in her heart I be no worse), I put on
my goloshes, take my umbrella, and trudge up and down the little streets
and lanes on real and, if need be, imaginary errands. The Duke of
Wellington s