“Pomona!” said I, “what have you been doing?”      

       “I was a lookin' at the moon, sir, when pop! the chair bounced, and out I went.”      

       “You shouldn't do that,” I said, sternly.     

       “Some day you'll be drowned. Take off your wet things and go to bed.”      

       “Yes, sma'am—sir, I mean,” said she, as she went down-stairs.     

       When I reached my room I lighted the lamp, and found Euphemia still under the bed.     

       “Is it all right?” she asked.     

       “Yes,” I answered. “There was no burglar. Pomona fell out of the window.”      

       “Did you get her a plaster?” asked Euphemia, drowsily.     

       “No, she did not need one. She's all right now. Were you worried about me, dear?”      

       “No, I trusted in you entirely, and I think I dozed a little under the bed.”      

       In one minute she was asleep.     

       The boarder and I did not make this matter a subject of conversation afterward, but Euphemia gave the girl a lecture on her careless ways, and made her take several Dover's powders the next day.     

       An important fact in domestic economy was discovered about this time by Euphemia and myself. Perhaps we were not the first to discover it, but we certainly did find it out,—and this fact was, that housekeeping costs money. At the end of every week we counted up our expenditures—it was no trouble at all to count up our receipts—and every week the result was more unsatisfactory.     

       “If we could only get rid of the disagreeable balance that has to be taken along all the time, and which gets bigger and bigger like a snow-ball, I think we would find the accounts more satisfactory,” said Euphemia.     

       This was on a Saturday night. We always got our pencils and paper and money at the end of the week.     

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