"Revolt, I say! Leave him this very night! Oh! if I could--"

"If you please 'm," interrupted the page, throwing open the door,
"here's Mrs. Simpson, an' says she must see you partic'lar."

Mrs. Buzza had barely time to dry her eyes and set her bonnet
straight, before Mrs. Simpson rushed into the room. The new comer's
face was crimson, and her eyes sparkled.

"Oh! Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, I must--"

At this point she became aware of Mrs. Buzza, stopped abruptly, sank
into a chair, and began aimlessly to discuss the weather.

This was awkward; but the situation became still further strained
when Mrs. Pellow was announced, and bursting in with the same
eagerness, came to a dead halt with the same inconsequence.
Mrs. Saunders followed with white face and set teeth, and Mrs.
Ellicome-Payne in haste and tears.

"Pray come in," said their hostess blandly; "this is quite like a
mothers' meeting."

The reader has no doubt guessed aright. Though nobody present ever
afterwards breathed a word as to their reasons for calling thus at
"The Bower," and though the weather (which was serene and settled)
alone supplied conversation during their visit, the truth is that the
domestic relations of all these ladies had coincidently reached a
climax. It seems incredible; but by no other hypothesis can I
explain the facts. If the reader can supply a better, he is
entreated to do so.

At length, finding the constraint past all bearing, Mrs. Buzza rose
to go.

"You will do it?" whispered her hostess as they shook hands.

She could not trust herself to answer, but nodded and hastily left
the room. At the front door she almost ran against a thin,
mild-faced gentleman. He drew aside with a bow, and avoided the
collision; but she did not notice him.

"I will do it," she kept repeating to herself, "in spite of the poor
girls."

A mist swept before her eyes as she passed down the road.
She staggered a little, with a vague feeling that the world was
ending somehow; but she repeated--

"I will do it. I have been a good wife to him; but it's all over
now--it's all over to-night."

The mild-faced gentleman into whom Mrs. Buzza had so nearly run in
her agitation was Mr. Fogo. A certain air of juvenility sat upon
him, due to a new pair of gloves and the careful polish which Caleb
had coaxed upon his hat and boots. His clothes were brushed, his
carriage was more erect; and the page, who opened the door, must,
after a scrutiny,