Hands which
were true works of art--Retained his dignity without putting
it on--Sighed heavily over my efforts--Unctuous M. Huguenin--
"From dawn to eve I fell"--The multum-in-parvo machine--
"Beauty and the Beast"--Frank Channing--"Blood-and water!"--
A lapful of Irish stew.

It was observed a little way back that English boarding-houses were much
like other boarding-houses in the civilized world. The rule is proved
by the exception of Mrs. Blodgett's establishment. There never was such
another; there never will be; it was unique. It has vanished from earth
long since; but if there were boarding-houses in paradise, I should
certainly expect it to be found again there. Who was Mrs. Blodgett? Save
that she was a widow of the British middle class, I doubt if any one of
her boarders knew. She had once been rich, and had lived at Gibraltar. I
have often meditated with fruitless longing about what manner of man Mr.
Blodgett could have been. He must have been, like the Emperor Titus,
the delight of mankind in his day. He was a man, we must surmise, whose
charms and virtues were such that his wife, having felt the bliss and
privilege of knowing and living with him, registered a vow over his bier
that she would devote her future career to the attempt to make others as
happy as he had made her; that she would serve others as faithfully
and generously as she had served him. It was a lofty and beautiful
conception, for she must have perceived that only in that way could she
keep his blessed spirit near her; that the little heaven she would make
in Duke Street, Liverpool, would attract him from the kindred heaven
above; that he would choose to hover, invisible, above her plenteous
table, inhaling the grateful aromas that arose from it as from a savory
sacrifice, basking in the smiles and sympathizing in the satisfaction
of the fortunate guests, triumphing in their recognition of his beloved
consort as a queen among women. One might almost fancy that the steam
arising from the portly soup-tureen assumed as it arose something
suggesting a human form; that from its airy and fragrant mistiness a
shadowy countenance beamed down upon the good lady in black, with
the white cap, who ladled out the delicious compound to her waiting
devotees. The murmur of the tea-urn would seem to fashion itself into
airy accents, syllabling, "Mary, thy Blodgett is here!" His genial
spirit would preside over her labors in the kitche