.

The handsome old lady was Mrs. Kitson, the wife of the naval officer,
whose ready-furnished lodgings they had occupied for the last year.
Flora rose to meet her visitor, with the baby still upon her arm.

"Mrs. Kitson, I am happy to see you. Pray take the easy-chair by the
fire. I hope your cough is better."

"No chance of that," said the healthy old lady, who had never known a
fit of dangerous illness in her life, "while I continue so weak.
Hu--hu--hu--. You see, my dear, that it is as bad as ever."

Flora thought that she never had seen a person at Mrs. Kitson's advanced
stage of life with such a healthy, rosy visage. But every one has some
pet weakness. Mrs. Kitson's was always fancying herself ill and
nervous. Now, Flora had no very benignant feelings towards the old
lady's long catalogue of imaginary ailments; so she changed the dreaded
subject, by inquiring after the health of the old Captain, her husband.

"Ah, my dear, he's just as well as ever,--nothing in the world ever ails
him; and little he cares for the sufferings of another. This is a great
day with him; he's all bustle and fuss. Just step to the window, and
look at his doings. It's enough to drive a sensible woman mad. Talk of
women wearing the _smalls_, indeed! it's a base libel on the sex.
Captain Kitson is not content with putting on my apron, but he
appropriates my petticoats also. I cannot give an order to my maid, but
he contradicts it, or buy a pound of tea, but he weighs it after the
grocer. Now, my dear, what would you do if the _Leaftenant_ was like my
husband?"

"Really, I don't know," and Flora laughed heartily. "It must be rather a
trial of patience to a good housekeeper like you. But what is he about?"
she cried, stepping to the window that overlooked a pretty lawn in front
of the house, which commanded a fine view of the sea. "He and old Kelly
seem up to their eyes in business. What an assemblage of pots and
kettles, and household stuff there is upon the lawn! Are you going to
have an auction?"

"You may well think so; if that were the case, there might be some
excuse for his folly. No; all this dirt and confusion, which once a
week drives me nearly beside myself, is what K---- calls clearing up the
ship; when he and his man Friday, as he calls Kelly, turn everything
topsy-turvy, and, to make the muddle more complete, they always choose
my washing-day for their frolic. Pantries and cellars are rummaged over,
and everything is dr