“Look here!” said Waterford; “this is coming it rather strong, isn't it?”
As I saw he was getting angry, I told him all about it,—told him how we had hired a stranded canal-boat and had fitted it up as a house, and how we lived so cosily in it, and had called it “Rudder Grange,” and how we had taken a boarder.
“Well!” said he, “this is certainly surprising. I'm coming out to see you some day. It will be better than going to Barnum's.”
I told him—it is the way of society—that we would be glad to see him, and we parted. Waterford never did come to see us, and I merely mention this incident to show how some of our friends talked about Rudder Grange, when they first heard that we lived there.
After dinner that evening, when I went up on deck with Euphemia to have my smoke, we saw the boarder sitting on the bulwarks near the garden, with his legs dangling down outside.
“Look here!” said he.
I looked, but there was nothing unusual to see.
“What is it?” I asked.
He turned around and seeing Euphemia, said:
“Nothing.”
It would be a very stupid person who could not take such a hint as that, and so, after a walk around the garden, Euphemia took occasion to go below to look at the kitchen fire.
As soon as she had gone, the boarder turned to me and said:
“I'll tell you what it is. She's working herself sick.”
“Sick?” said I. “Nonsense!”
“No nonsense about it,” he replied.
The truth was, that the boarder was right and I was wrong. We had spent several months at Rudder Grange, and during this time Euphemia had been working very hard, and she really did begin to look pale and thin. Indeed, it would be very wearying for any woman of culture and refinement, unused to house-work, to cook and care for two men, and to do all the work of a
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