nnies
were sorry, not glad; because really grown-up people were so queer, you
never could be even with them. The laceration of a lost half-century was
a thing that could not enter into the calculations of a septennarian. He
had not tried Time, and Time had not tried him. He had odd misgivings,
now and again, that there might be in this matter something outside his
experience. But he did not indulge in useless speculation. The proximity
of Christmas made it unnecessary.

Mrs. Burr and Aunt M'riar accepted the season as one beneficial to
trade; production taking the form of a profusion of little muslin
dresses for small girls at Christmas Trees and parties with a
Conjurer--dresses in which the fullest possibilities of the human
flounce became accomplished facts, and the last word was said about bows
of coloured ribbons. To look at them was to breathe an involuntary
prayer for eiderdown enclosures that would keep the poppet inside warm
without disparagement to her glorious finery. Sapps Court under their
influence became eloquent of quadrilles; "_Les Rats_" and the Lancers,
jangled by four hands eternally on pianos no powers of sleep could
outwit, and no execration do justice to. They murmured tales of crackers
with mottoes; also of too much rich cake and trifle and lemonade, and
consequences. So much space was needed to preserve them unsoiled and
uncrushed until consigned to their purchasers, that Mrs. Burr and Aunt
M'riar felt grateful for the unrestricted run of Mrs. Prichard's
apartment, although both also felt anxious to see her at home again.

Mrs. Prichard's writing-table came back, done beautiful. Only the young
man he refused to leave it without the money. He was compelled to this
course by the idiosyncrasies of his employer. "You see," said he to
Uncle Mo, with an appearance of concentrating accuracy by a shrewd
insight, "it's like this it is, just like I tell you. Our Governor he's
as good a feller--in _hisself_ mind you!--as you'll come across this
side o' Whitechapel. Only he's just got this one pecooliarity--like a
bee has in his bonnet, as the sayin' is--he won't give no credit, not so
much as to his own wife; or his medical adwiser, if you come to that.
'Cash across invoice'--that's his motter. And as for moving of him, you
might just as easy move Mongblong." It is not impossible that this young
man's familiarity with Mont Blanc was more apparent than real; perhaps
founded on Albert Smith's entertainment o