the cook's birthday; and she thought you would'nt mind her having a few friends, so she invited her cousins,' (looking at me as though she would ask, 'what have you got to say to that, Mr. Man?')

'Well, Sabina,' said Mary, coloring up in confusion, 'just sign your name to this—it is only as a witness.'

'I cannot write, marm,' answered dandy Amazon, very short at being exposed.

'Then send Elizabeth here.'

'She is out too, marm.'

'What? Elizabeth has gone out?'

'Yes marm, you see,' (becoming confidential,) 'the cook and her has quarrelled like—she neglected to ask her to her little party till late this evening, and so she got huffy and put on her things and dashed out of the house,' (at this time I had either an attack of the ague or was laughing so hard internally that it leaked through.)

'Is Dinah in?'

'Yes marm.'

'Ask her, please, to come here.'

Sabina tripped off with a satisfied air, and five—ten—fifteen minutes elapsed and no Ellen. I took out my memorandum and quickly wrote down a few valuable plans on the coming campaign. The clock struck half past eight, and my sister opened the entry door and listened—the kitchen door soon shut and somebody came up stairs slowly, with a waiter full of something.

'Is that you, Dinah?'

'Yes marm.'

'Why didn't you come before?'

'I don't know, mum.'

'Didn't Sabina tell you I wanted you?'

'No, mum. She told me you wanted to know how many were down stairs, and I counted seventeen.'

'Take care Dinah, you're spilling that milk!'

'I can't help it, this pitcher leaks.'

'Where's the children's bowl?'

'I don't know, mum—I think it's broke.'

'Broken! Why, I bought a new one yesterday.'

''Tain't my fault.'

Hopelessly resigned, my sister Mary politely requested her to put down the waiter, and explained the nature of a witness's duty. We acknowledged our signatures and Dinah wrote out her name in a neat hand, then picked up the waiter and walked out of the room with the air of an injured innocent.

I jumped up, kissed my sister, informed her that for the next three months she was to be a passive observer, asked her to retire, locked up the contract, and gave the bell one pull that brought half the household to the door.

PART II.

A MAN'S PLAN.

As the servants rushed into the library they found me quietly reading a book and puffing at the pages. I slightly raised my eyes to this back ground of faces on which might be seen, surprise, anger, impertinence, curiosity and excitement. I slowly placed my book half open across my knee, with my hand resting on the cover, and with the other taking my segar out of my mouth, knocked the ashes off into a little glass tub; elevated my eyebrows and asked in perfect astonishment, yet measured tones:

'What-is-the-matter?'

'That's what we want to know sir;' exclaimed the cook, a little let down by my coolness.

'Nothing that I know of,' I replied, except that I took the liberty of ringing my bell,' increasing in volume as I spoke.

'We thought some one was sick, sir,' said Sabina.

'I don't want to know what you thought,' I rolled out in emphatic base, 'I want the waiter! which is it?'—That neuter cut them to the heart.

But they rallied—a revolt was imminent. I had lived in the family one year, with my sister as housekeeper, and had never made a remark to the servants, it being my habit in life to submit to what was not my business, or clear out. But now—now, with Imprimatur on my forehead, a clutch in my mental fingers, and a hungry longing to rule free: ha! ha!—Let us see. This was a trying moment—The vessel had been signalled, and my colors were to be shown—so here they go—the flag of the little brig 'one-man-power,' with the motto 'Anvil or hammar answer hammar,' is unfurled.

Hemmed in by swelling indignation, whisperings and sullen looks, I jumped up and yelled in stentorian voice:

'Leave my room! How dare you answer the waiter's bell? Send me the waiter and clear out, every one of you!' and, with a sweeping wave of my hand, I stalked towards the door. Reader, did you ever see the sun chase a big cloud right off a green field, and, with no respite, drive it headlong away over beyond the horizon? Such was the rapid departure of my stupefied retainers. On reaching the door, I slammed it to with a violence that echoed through the hushed and palsied house.

Oh the benefit of a good slam—not a push—nor a quick shut—nor even a bump, all of which show still a want of firmness and decision—but a good old-fashioned 'bang' as though it had got into your throat and you could'nt breathe—that life depended on shutting out a flash of lightning and you hadn't time to wait—that the harder you impelled it against the doorway the sooner would end fast fleeting agony—that the nearer you got to what might be called an explosive shut: the more complete would be your safety, that if all your concentrated passion could be, not flung, (that is too weak) but hurled at that one partition a vacuum might be made in your room towards which good impulses might be drawn inversely. Many a good natured man who has been cornered by injustice has slammed off his anger, and is ready to forgive, but not give up. There is a dignity in this rapid developement of muscular power which admits of no surrender—the gauntlet has been thrown down, the chip has been knocked off the shoulder, the black flag is hoisted and skull and bones stand out in bold relief. There may be a calm, the wind may die out, but the monster waves once lashed up to a Titanic power move on of their own accord, and wash away the very vestige of resistance. Asking to be forgiven after slamming a door is like touching off a Rodman gun, and then calling out to the fort in front to 'look out' 'take care!' 'do get out of the way.' A first class slam is cumulative long after the noise has ceased—the nerves go on slamming—the valves of the heart flap to and from—the tympanum roils a revelrie to all the shattered senses, the offender slammed at, at once subsides from rage to fear; the mental barometer falls—and apprehension—the requiescat—is a don't know what is coming next. A bona fide, abandoned slam is a Domestic Earthquake.

I next sat down on my Mexican chair, and waited for the rapid hatching of the egg. A register led up from the kitchen into my room, and though never used, formed one of those abominable listening tubes that might be truthfully called family tale-bearers. This time, however, I had the pleasure of overhearing the following fragmentary evidence of a reaction:

'He must be crazy.' 'Did he drink much after dinner?' 'I say, you have been here longer than I have, have you ever seen him so before?' Then a giggle, and some one saying: 'Is he married?'

'Sabina, ain't you ashamed to laugh?'—'poor thing—won't stay—gallows'—then silence, and in a few minutes one after another of the visitors passed by under the window on tip-toe, and almost immediately a soft knock and a pause. I thought   * * *   and acted.

'Come in,' said I, in one of those gentle and subdued voices that no one but a passionate man can possess. The door gradually opened, and there stood Susan, the devoted aunt.

I had placed a volume of engravings before my eyes, and was busily engaged in drawing some plan, on paper, as she entered. I went on for a little while in silence, when she said:

'I understood, sir——'

I said 'wait a minute,' and went on ruling one entire side, with double lines, in perfect forgetfulness of her presence.

When she spoke again, 'Did you send for me, sir?' I would have