his fair consort's face. 

 "Bring them in and open them," said the lady, again sinking down in her soft seat. 

 The small man disappeared in a twinkling, and the portmanteaus were soon placed on the table, and their contents spread forth. 

 "I will now order some refreshment," said Mrs. Pimble;—"and while it is preparing, we can amuse ourselves with the documents. What would you prefer for your dinner, sister Simcoe?" 

 "Pea soup," returned the lady doctor; "that is my uniform dish,—simple and plain." 

 "And Mr. Simcoe, what would he choose?" 

 "O, he has no choice!—anything that comes handiest will do for him." 

 Mrs. Pimble glanced toward Mr. Simcoe. Mr. Simcoe simpered and bowed. So Mrs. Pimble swept into the kitchen to issue her commands. She started on beholding Dilly Danforth bending over a wash-tub filled to the brim with smoking linen, just out of a boiling suds. Darting one fiery glance toward her forceless husband, sitting humped up over the stove, his head supported on his hands, she exclaimed, "What does this mean?" Mr. Pimble looked up vacantly; Peggy turned round from her occupation of washing the dinner dishes, and Dilly kept to her wash-tub. No one seemed to understand to whom the stately mistress addressed her brief interrogatory. "Have you all lost your tongues?" at length exclaimed Mrs. Pimble, in a louder tone; and, seizing her husband's chair, she gave it a rough jerk, and demanded, "Are you dumb, Peter Pimble? What is that beggar-woman,"—pointing toward Dilly,—"doing here?" 

 "Don't you see she is washing?" returned the husband, rather ironically. 

 "Well, by whose leave?" 

 "Mine." 

 "Yours?—and why have you brought a washerwoman into the house in my absence, and without my permission?" 

 "Because all my linen was dirty." 

 "What if it was?" 

 "I wanted it washed." 

 "What for?" 

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