oked three meals for herself and two for Bog (who was never home at
noon) daily. She was singularly punctual, too. Breakfast was always
smoking hot on the table at 6 A.M.; and supper (and dinner combined, for
Bog) was never a minute behind 5 P.M. in the winter time. Bog, who had a
truly boyish idea of feminine excellencies, considered that this knack
of cooking, and this amazing punctuality, were more than an offset for
his aunt's little infirmities of temper, and her everlasting discourse
on the rheumatics.

Though the beef hash was good, and the toast nicely browned and
buttered, and the tea strong, and the fire burning brightly through the
grates of the stove, and the curtains snugly drawn, and everything
cheerful and comfortable in Bog's humble home, the boy was unhappy, and
could not eat.

Happily, his aunt was so engrossed with her own physical troubles, that
she never noticed indications of ill health in other people. She held
that every other human ailment was unworthy of mention in the presence
of her sovereign affliction. Whenever anybody presumed to speak of their
little personal sufferings before her, she said: "You should thank
Heaven you haven't got the rheumatics," and would then proceed to give a
circumstantial history of her acquaintance with that disease. Therefore,
on this occasion, she was quite unaware that poor Bog sat opposite to
her with a pale, dejected face, playing aimlessly on his plate with his
knife and fork. She thought only, and talked only, of her malady, which
had been pranking in the oddest manner all day, and had settled, at
last, in her "limbs." Bog's aunt had no legs that she would own to.

After supper, Bog heaved a sigh, and said that he would go round to
Uncle Ith's; and asked his aunt if she had any word to send by him.

"Oh, no; nothing partickler," said she. "He don't care about me."

Uncle Ith, as everybody called him, was Bog's uncle on his mother's
side. Uncle Ith and the aunt had a standing difference touching that
rheumatism. Whenever they met--which was rarely--Uncle Ith would ask
her, with a wink, how she was; and when she candidly told him that she
was in a dreadful state, he would laugh at her, and say that half of it
was "imagination." This indignity he had repeated so often, that,
latterly, she scorned to complain in his presence, and bore her anguish
in noble silence.

"All right," said Bog, who took no part in these family differences. He
put on his cap, and