stepping carefully, like those unaccustomed to dry land (or wet land either, for the matter of that), they gazed upon each other in silence.

No one, not even the most careful observer, would have recognised in the two dusty figures, the once spruce forms of Captain Thomas Tomb and Dingy David.

"Home!" said the young fellow, throwing a diamond at a wave-crest. (When I say "diamond"—they were always finding them in corners of their pockets.)

"Home once more!"

"Cinderadustmat!" exclaimed Tomb. "Let me hear you, oh! let me hear you say the word again!"

"Home," said the young fellow, gazing at the ripe ockapillies hanging overhead.

Mastering his ill-concealed emotion, T. T. rose and strode—(when I say strode—T. T. never walked: he strolled, strutted, strode, or stepped, invariably)—towards the house.

Threw open the door!! xxxxxx! o! z! What a sight met his eyes!!

Dust, dust, dust—everywhere.

Dust met his eye. (When I say that, I mean that he saw dust—over all the simple cottage furniture he loved.)

He groaned three times.

The young man, who was idly chewing the stone of a cringet, turned and saw, through the open door, dust, dust, dust.

Leaping to his feet, he rushed to the Captain's side.

"Captain," said he, "we must have a Charwoman."

(I say charwoman, meaning a woman who is paid to do work that other servants are hired to do, but will not.)