say. But I would suggest, whether ostlers do not give their animals an
extra quantity of oats on New Year's day, to make their action
more stylish?"

Mr. Overtop marked a quizzical expression in the widow's left eye, and
was disgusted.

For the third time she looked intently at Matthew Maltboy, who was
putting in a few words with great animation; and then turned her face
toward Mr. Quigg, who was taking his third mental inventory of the
furniture, and executing "Hail Columbia," with variations, on his hat.

"It's a finer New Year's day than the last one, is it not, Mr. Quigg?"

Mr. Quigg, who had an astonishing memory for dates and conditions of the
weather, replied, after a second's reflection:

"It is a much finer day, Mrs. Frump. It rained last New Year's. Perhaps
you may remember my leaving an umbrella at the house where you were then
stopping, in Sixteenth street, and my calling for it again, on which
occasion you said I reminded you of Paul Pry, in the play, who was
always forgetting his umbrella."

The widow laughed, and said that she distinctly remembered the
circumstances.

Mr. Quigg, thus encouraged, went on:

"New Year's days differ very much. The one before the last was very
snowy in the forenoon, with hail in the afternoon; and the one before
that was so mild, that I found an overcoat really uncomfortable. The
one before--"

"Excuse me for the interruption," said Mrs. Frump, suddenly, "but I
can't help saying how much Mr. Maltboy looks like Dr. Warts. Doesn't
he, Clemmy?"

"Like Dr. Warts!" exclaimed Miss Whedell. "Who's he?"

"Why, don't you remember, Clemmy, the doctor that you consulted about
your hair?" The widow looked the picture of guilelessness as she asked
the question.

Miss Whedell turned slightly red in parts of her face that were not red
before, and involuntarily raised her hands to two heavy braids of hair
which fronted each ear, and adjusted them. Then she said, sarcastically:

"Mr. Maltboy must feel much flattered at being compared with a notorious
quack."

Mrs. Frump, with a laugh spreading all over her gentle face, replied:

"Oh! of course you call him a quack, because he could not save your--"

"You are rude, madam," said Miss Whedell, with emotion.

"And you are silly, miss," retorted Mrs. Frump, still smiling, "to take
offence at nothing."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, madam."

Greatly to the relief of the three callers, who were seized with a
desire t