some live thing, rushing madly between my feet, had nearly upset me. I suppressed a childish shriek of terror. I recognised the cat. I am not fond of cats, hence ours, when not taking her walks abroad, is strictly relegated to the cellar, where, after her best endeavours, mice are ever o'er plenty. I found the cellar windows not only devoid of fastenings, but partially denuded of glass. Abandoning the idea of securing that slip-shod approach to my stronghold, I beat a hasty retreat, pussy, meantime, at my heels, and brushing my gown with disagreeable familiarity.

The door leading to the cellar stairway had, in addition to its lock, a stout bolt. I carefully secured it by both, and, as twilight was coming on, shot, with a will, the hasps of such window fastenings, in the first and second stories, as had obligingly retained their patent adjustments, and, with hammer and nails, proceeded to secure the rest. Meantime, night was upon me. My own footsteps sounded uncanny, as I passed from room to room, and my hammer-strokes, as I drove in nail after nail, set my startled nerves on edge. In shadowy corners of the dusky apartments, sinister shapes seemed lurking. Imaginary footfalls echoed weirdly in the chambers above. The cat purring offensively, and still dogging my steps, innocently contributed to the general uncomfortableness. Regardless (in this exigent moment) of the quarterly bill, I turned on at every jet a lavish flow of gas, until one superb glare flooded the entire ground floor of Irving Cottage. Reassured by this reckless illumination, I betook myself to the preparation of supper. In consequence of the kitchen fire having gone out, it was a strictly informal meal, consisting solely of sardines, crackers, and lithia water.

Supping, with nervous despatch, I cleared my table, gorged the cat (who, in the unwonted dearth of society, was permitted to lodge in the kitchen), and, making a final survey of the brilliant lower story, turned off the gas, and, match in hand (and with a directness that would have proved the salvation of "Lot's wife"), sought my bedroom.

Lighting my gas, I locked my door, looked under the bed, made an exhaustive search in the closets, and, composed and reassured, sat down to the completion of Black's last novel. Ere long, absorbed in the fortunes of poor, love-crazed "Mac Leod of Dare," I became utterly oblivious of my own dreary situation. Once, the ringing of the side door-bell recalled me to the actual, but, having determined to open to no man that night, I discreetly lowered the gas, and, peeping from behind my window-shade, made sure that it was the expressman, and then coolly let him ring. He must have more than exhausted his notoriously scant stock of patience ere I heard him drive off, swearing awfully at his horses, as he lashed them down the drive. It may be recorded, in this connection, that Cicely, some five days later, on opening her pantry shutter to drive out the flies, discovered a blood-stained, brown paper parcel thrust in, and firmly wedged, between window and blind. On examination, it was found to contain the perishing bodies of three hapless squabs, which Alcibiades, in a reckless excess of conjugal tenderness, had bought (as a toothsome addition to my Sunday dinner), on his way to the railroad station.

When this touching proof of my good husband's indulgent care came to light, I take shame to confess that, hardening my heart, I mocked thus wickedly to myself,—"The idiot! to fancy that a sane woman would scorch herself over a coal-stove, broiling squabs for her own healthy self, with corned beef, sardines, and delicious olives at hand!"

But, to return from this digression—the ireful expressman well away—I sailed serenely on to midnight, and the last harrowing chapter of my novel. Then bathing my strained eyes, and reducing my light to the merest flicker, I crept wearily to bed.

After a whole fidgety hour spent in the composure of my nerves, and the resolving into natural causes of such "noises of the night" as successively set my hair on end, I fell asleep.

The sun was already high when I awoke. It was a lovely September morning. Recalling, with amused wonder, the groundless alarms of the last eventless night, I bathed and dressed in great spirits, and descended to the preparation of breakfast.

Yesterday's coffee, warmed over in an Ætna, was less palatable than I could have imagined, and, easily resisting the indulgence of a second cup, I completed, with scant relish, my untempting meal.

The ringing of the church bells surprised me in my morning work. It was Sunday. Not for a moment, however, must I entertain the idea of going to church!

In C——, bold, day-time robberies were familiar occurrences, and, in my absence, our unguarded domicile would become an easy prey for the spoiler. The outer doors, three in number, were securely fastened, and I especially congratulated myself upon the complete security of the glass door opening from our parlour upon the piazza, as, in addition to its regular fastening, it rejoiced in an admirable catch-lock, that snapped beautifully, of itself, as one closed it.

As the morning wore on, weary of reading, I wrote some letters, and thereafter overhauled my writing-desk. Among my accumulated correspondence, I found half a score of stiffly-worded epistles. They had been indited by inmates of the Massachusetts State Prison. To elucidate the controlling event of my story, let me say, that helpful effort among the convicts had long been an integral part of my life-work.

Among themselves, they were pleased to term me "The Prisoner's Friend," and, when discharged, and homeless, they often came to me for counsel, or aid, in procuring that employment which, naturally, is but grudgingly given to these attainted beings, whom, even as visitors, my friends considered objectionable. On Mondays, my weekly visit to the prison hospital was made. I carried to its patients fruit and flowers, and read to them, sandwiching in, as best I could, a modicum of reproof and advice.

The re-reading, sorting, and bestowal of this odd correspondence brought me to dinner-time. An unsubstantial breakfast having whetted my appetite for this important meal, I resolved to start a fire in the kitchen stove. Having achieved this exploit—with that absurd outlay of time, strength, and patience, peculiar to the amateur—I laboriously elaborated an omelet, a dish of Lyonnaise potatoes, and a steaming pot of tea.

Heated and weary, I hurried through the parlours, threw open the piazza door for a whiff of fresh air, before dishing my dinner, and, attracted by the grateful odor of heliotrope, stepped debonairly into the outside sunshine. As I passed, the "sweet west wind" whipped to the piazza door. It closed behind me, with a malicious bang. The much admired patent fastening had, but too well, done its fatal work! I stood diabolically fastened out of my own house! Recovering breath, and taking in the desperate situation, I glanced ruefully at my neighbour's back bow window. Miss Pettingrew, my next neighbour, was an elderly maiden, and of curiosity "all compact." Nominally (as set forth on her sign of blue and gold) a dressmaker, but adding to her regular vocation the supervision of our neighbourhood, the outgoings and incomings of the Simpletons were especially focussed by her awful eye.

Our neighbourhood was not socially congenial. We had come to C—— for the sole purpose of putting a son through Harvard, and, having no other local interest in that city, we were simply the nobodies from nowhere, and consequently ineligible as acquaintances.

Irving Cottage—so