f the above
voluble speech, and the lady visitor replied:

"You speak heroicly, sister Justitia. I see you have obtained your
rightful position in your own household. O, would that all our crushed
and down-trodden sisters were possessed of but a tithe of your energy and
independence of character! Then would our young Reform, which encounters
on every side the swords and pickaxes of infuriate battalions of the
tyrant man, ride in triumphal chariot over our whole broad country's
proud domain!"

"Ah, sister Simcoe, how doth your inspired language fill my soul with
fire! I rejoice that you are come among us. How will your presence
encourage our ranks, and, in the triumph of your medical skill, vile male
usurpers of the healing art shall sink to rise no more! I long to read
again the proceedings of our late convention, the thrilling speeches, the
sweeping resolutions!"

"Let us thus occupy ourselves," said young Dr. Simcoe, turning toward a
remote corner of the apartment where sat the small man who had
accompanied the ladies, perched on a hard, uncushioned chair, his hands
folded in his lap, and his eyes bent studiously on the carpet. This was
the personage on whom the accomplished young medical practitioner had, a
few months previous, condescended to bestow the princely honor of her
hand.

"Sim," said the eloquent wife, as she glanced carelessly upon him, "where
are the portmanteaus?"

"In the entry," answered the small man, raising his eyes for a moment to
his fair consort's face.

"Bring them in and open them," said the lady, again sinking down in her
soft seat.

The small man disappeared in a twinkling, and the portmanteaus were soon
placed on the table, and their contents spread forth.

"I will now order some refreshment," said Mrs. Pimble;--"and while it is
preparing, we can amuse ourselves with the documents. What would you
prefer for your dinner, sister Simcoe?"

"Pea soup," returned the lady doctor; "that is my uniform dish,--simple
and plain."

"And Mr. Simcoe, what would he choose?"

"O, he has no choice!--anything that comes handiest will do for him."

Mrs. Pimble glanced toward Mr. Simcoe. Mr. Simcoe simpered and bowed. So
Mrs. Pimble swept into the kitchen to issue her commands. She started on
beholding Dilly Danforth bending over a wash-tub filled to the brim with
smoking linen, just out of a boiling suds. Darting one fiery glance
toward her forceless husband, sitting humped up over the stove,