* * * * *

I got down to breakfast early next morning, determined to tell the whole
sad story and have Miss Brown put under restraint without further ado.

Before I could get a word out, however, the lunatic herself appeared,
looking, I thought, absolutely full of beans. She and Aunt Angela exchanged
salutations.

"I hope you slept better last night, Jane."

"Splendidly, thank you, Angela, except for an hour or so; but I got up and
walked it off."

"Walked it off! Where?"

"All over the house. Most exciting."

"Do you mean to say you were walking about the house last night all by
yourself?" Aunt Angela exclaimed in horror.

Miss Brown shook her grey head. "Oh, no, not by myself. Our sympathetic
young friend had a touch of insomnia himself for once and was good enough
to keep me company." She smiled sweetly in my direction. "He was _most_
entertaining. I've been chuckling ever since."

PATLANDER.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Urchin_ (_who has been "moved on" by emaciated policeman_).
"AIN'T YER GOT A COOK ON YOUR BEAT?"]

* * * * *

OUR SPARTAN EDITORS.

"WANTED: THE CAT. By Horatio Bottomley."--_John Bull._

* * * * *

MARDI GRAS.

(_With the British Army in France._)

"Have you reflected, _mon chou_," said M'sieur Bonneton, complacently
regarding the green carnations on his carpet-slippers, "that to-morrow is
Mardi Gras?"

"I have," replied Madame shortly.

"One may expect then, _ma petite,_ that there will be _crepes_ for dinner?"

"With eggs at twelve francs the dozen?" said Madame decidedly. "One may
not."

On any other matter M'sieur would probably have taken his wife's decision
as final, but he had a consuming passion for _crepes_, and was moreover a
diplomat.

"_La vie chere!_" he said sadly; "it cuts at the very vitals of
hospitality. With what pleasure I could have presented myself to our
amiable neighbours, the Sergeant-Major Coghlan and his estimable wife, and
said, 'It is the custom in France for all the world to eat _crepes_ on
Mardi Gras. Accept these, then, made by Madame Bonneton herself, who in the
making of this national delicacy is an incomparable artist.' But when eggs
are twelve francs the dozen"--he shook his head gloomily--"generous
sentiments must perish."

Madame perceptibly softened.

"Perhaps, after all, I might persuade that miser Dobelle