return presently with a very red face and the roast mutton.

"Where's the fish?" asks papa, in a terrific tone. 

"It didn't arrive in time, sir." 

"Who has the ordering of dinner in this house?" inquires papa, addressing us all generally, as though ignorant of the fact of mother's having done so without a break for the last twenty-six years. "_Nobody_, I presume, by the manner in which it is served. Now, remember, James, I give strict orders that no more fish is ever taken from that fishmonger. Do you hear?""Yes, sir." And at length we all get some roast mutton. It seems to me that dinner will never come to an end; and yet, to watch me, I feel sure no stranger would ever guess at my impatience. Experience has taught me that any attempt at hurry will betray me, and produce an order calculated to prevent my seeing Billy for the entire evening. I therefore smother my feelings, break my walnuts, and get through my claret with a great show of coolness. Claret is a thing I detest; but it pleases papa to form our tastes, which means condemning us to eat and drink such things as are nauseous and strictly distasteful to us.

At length, however, the welcome word is spoken, and we rise from the table. Once outside the door, I fly to the cook, and, having obtained such delicacies as are procurable, rush upstairs, and enter Billy's room, to find him seated at the farthest end, the deepest look of dejection upon his features. As our eyes meet, this gloom vanishes, giving place to an expression of intense relief.

"Oh!" he says, "I thought you were Dora."

"No. I could not come sooner, as papa fought over every course. But I have brought you your dinner now, Billy. You must be starving."

"I had it long ago," says Billy, drawing a potato from his pocket and a plate from under the dressing-table on which mutton is distinctly visible. I feel rather disappointed.

"Who brought it to you?" I ask; but before I can receive a reply a heavy step upon the stairs strikes terror to our hearts. Instantly Billy's dinner goes under the table again, and the dejected depression returns to his face. But I, what am I to do? Under the bed I dive, plate and all, thrusting the plate on before me, and am almost safe, when I tip over a bit of rolled carpet and plunge forward, bringing both hands into the gravy. In this interesting position I remain, trembling, and afraid to stir or breathe, with my eyes directed 

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