ticoats, and finally incarcerated in a dungeon
of wrappers and shawls,--from the first he had the appearance of an
unhappy little convict. Mrs. Lawk invariably acted as chief jailer, and,
taking him into custody, changed his various places of confinement with
the austerity of a keeper of the Tower. My own position hourly became
more ambiguous; indeed, had it not been for the monthly bills, I would
have scarcely believed myself possessed of a house at all. I impatiently
awaited the promised evacuation; and when Moses Alphonso reached his
third birthday (babies have these interesting periods monthly instead of
annually) I ventured a hint that our own furniture was ample for all
requirements.

To my despair, Mrs. Lawk had rented her house. Malinda Jane's
confinement (which in my simplicity I imagined was of short duration),
it seemed, had been protracted from the day of her marriage.

Society was essential to her happiness; and society Mrs. Lawk was
determined she should have. If through her illness my privileges
experienced curtailment, her recovery brought annihilation itself.
Notwithstanding my piteous petition, we suddenly expanded into eminent
gentility.

I am dimly conscious that to many of our guests my introduction was to
Mrs. Lawk a poignant mortification. Most of them I never did know.
Several, however, seemed invited for my especial benefit; and this piece
of malignity will never cease to harrow.

How could _I_ talk to Miss Rose Buddington Violet, when she let down her
back hair and made eyes at the moon? _I_ had no back hair (in fact, none
at all to speak of), and scarcely knew there _was_ a moon.

When Mrs. Jesse Hennessee of Tennessee (whose husband is interested in
iron) persisted in making a blast-furnace of the kitchen stove, what
could I say?

There was Miss Aurelia Wallflower, who believed the world hollow, and
dolls stuffed with saw-dust, continually expatiating on the sufferings
of early Christians. _I_ have never read Fox's Book of Martyrs. With
Mrs. Lucretia McSimpkins I had some relief. She was fond of operatic
music, and, it is true, banged our piano out of tune at every
visit,--indeed, her efforts resembled a boiler-maker's establishment
under full headway; but, when she did subside, her perfect and
refreshing silence lasted for hours.

Malinda Jane, for whose amusement all this was designed, did not seem
more enthusiastic than myself. Most of her time was spent in a corner,
staring confu