meadows gave them the semblance of bars of gold. Arrived at Hampton Court, I left my bag at the hotel, intending that Saunders's lad should call for it, and sped along the old route across the park to Kingston, inhaling health and vigour at every step. But a disappointment awaited me. When I knocked at the door of Saunders's villa, instead of the customary prompt appearance of his "buttons," there was a pause ominous of something un pleasant, and then a cracked, wiry voice hailed me from below with the words, "What d'ye please to want ?" I looked down the area upon a slipshod girl, who, from her scared look, I saw was alone in the house.

"I want your master," I said. "Is not Mr. Saunders at home?" "No, sir, he ain't."

"Then I'll see Mrs. Saunders."

"She ain't at home naythur, sir--there bain't nobody at home not at all—they be all gone for a month to Sow Fen" (she meant to say Southend). "Master and Missis, and Miss 'Gelina and baby, and cook and housemaid, and Mister Jeems an' all."

"Indeed! That's unfortunate; but come up and open the door. I shall be glad to sit down a few minutes;" for I had walked myself into a perspiration.

Plee, sir, I bain't to open the door not to nobody, along o' the ticket-o'-leaves."

Here was a rather untoward consummation of my wife's kindly intentions in my favour. But there was no help for it, and nothing for me to do but to retrace my steps homewards. I was not in a hurry, however, to do that, but, sauntering leisurely again through the park, found my way to the Palace Gardens, thence into the picture-galleries, and whiled away the morning as agreeably as ! could. At a quarter to three I took the train to town, knowing that I should be in time to meet my wife at the dinner-table at the usual hour. I little thought what I was coming home to.

T

It was just upon the stroke of four when I knocked at my own door, and I was quite ready for my dinner. My well-known performance with the knocker again failed to produce the customary results. Instead of the tripping footfall of the housemaid along the hall, there was a scuffling, shuffling kind of sound, mingled with vocal utterances which struck me as ejaculations of alarm. Then there seemed to be a struggle going on in the passage; and at last, just as I had the knocker in hand for a second appeal, the door opened slowly, and Nancy the kitchen-maid stood behind it, her brown hair all limp and fluffy, her rosy face begrimed with dirt, and her fingers dripping with earth-coloured suds. It is as much as I can possibly accomplish to get into my own house, for the entire floor of the hall is covered with dusty carpets, consoltables, chairs, ottomans, rolled-up rugs, squabs, bolsters, workboxes, writing-desks, and other furniture. Although it is the dinner-hour, there is no appetizing odour from the kitchen; and there is cook, instead of bending over the spit, kneeling upon the ground and scrubbing away at the stairs. Instead of the odour of the roast, there is a very strong odour of soap, with more than a suspicion of turpentine, which seems to come from the parlours. On forcing my way in over the débris, I find that the carpets have been ripped up and carried off; the dining-tables, cheffoniers, and sofas, with I don't know how many other etceteras, are crowded together in the centre of the apartment, and are covered over with a party-coloured array of domestic rags, in the shape of old coverlets, window-blinds, and bed-hangings, released, for the nonce, from top-shelves, bottom-drawers, and corner-cupboards, where they are usually kept concealed in durance vile. Stalking about on planks supported above the heap of furniture are old Splasher, the whitewasher, and his man Hod, both of whom are slobbering away at the ceilings with their long brushes, the former growling angrily at the position of the book-case, which was too heavy, with its burden of

books, to be moved, and stands in the way of his work. There is Mrs. Potts, the charwoman, prostrate on the floor, which she grasps desperately with one hand, while with the other she is scouring the paint of the skirting-boards; and there is that gruesome sister of Mrs. Potts, the beadle's widow, trying to polish up the foldingdoors with her soapy flannel. The men do not condescend to notice me as I gaze wonderingly; but it is different with the two Pottses, who, it is evident, feel their privilege invaded. They say nothing, but they stare at me with all their eyes, as though I were the offspring of some dragon's tooth sprung suddenly from the ground. My modesty succumbs to their stony gaze, and ashamed of my intrusion, I rush away up-stairs to my own private study. There I find matters no better: indeed, with the single exception that Splasher has had his will with the ceiling, and that business is over, they are considerably worse. The carpet is not only gone, but the floor is a kind of half-dried puddle of liquid size and whiting, the fellows having upset their pail of wash in their hurry to get down. My papers have been arranged and "put to rights in what housemaids imagine to be an orderly manner; that is, they have all been piled in a heap, and covered up with an old windowblind, to save them from the droppings of Splasher's long brush: as if that was putting to rights. The book-shelves on three sides of the room are draped in sheets of "Times" Supplements, the only drapery visible in the apartment. The pictures have left the walls, and are cunningly stacked under the writing-table; the busts have left the brackets, and are sprawling all together on the sofa, with the exception of Lord Bacon, who has been thrust headdownwards into the waste-paper basket, to shield his venerable head from accidental damage. It is in vain that I look round for a place to sit down; the chairs are all there, but their bottoms are out, and I hear Betty pelting away at them in the back garden with one of my walking-sticks, to get the dust out of them. On the balcony

outside the window the painter's man is cleaning the panes; and he grins at me triumphantly as he notes my scared and bewildered aspect, but, catching my eye of a sudden, relapses into a face of stolid indifference, then purses up his mouth and begins whistling "Home, sweet home," of all tunes in the world.

I ring the bell, but no one comes; I ring again, rather emphatically the second time, and then I hear my wife's voice on the landing above, "My dear, you must come up to the nursery." So I go up, and find her sitting down to a dinner of eggs and bacon, and I hungry as a hunter, with my morning's ride and long country walks. I draw the veil over the scene that ensues-not but what I consider I behaved as well as could be expected under the circumstances; and I am the last man, I hope, to attach undeserved blame to my better half. I may here confess that, though most disagreeably astounded by the sudden transformation which had taken place at No. 18, I was not really so surprised as I ought to have been, because I had in times past had my misgivings that some such domestic débâcles did take place occasionally; and now I imagined that I could recall certain seasons when they must have happened. This turning of the house out of windows, I was confidentially and connubially informed, becomes an indispensable necessity at least once a year; and the best time to get it done is late in the spring, or early in the summer, just as the up-stairs fires are all done with, and the ornamental papers are ready to go into the grates. It should be done thus early, my authority informs me, in order that one may have the summer clear before one, for visits to country cousins, or jaunts to the sea-side, from which last one may not perhaps return until it is time for the up-stairs fires again, etc., etc.

I listened to this lucid and satisfactory explanation with as much philosophic patience as I could muster. I suppose it is all right: at least I have no intention of disputing it; but, if it is right

(begging pardon of all notable housewives), I don't see why Pater familias should be artfully trepanned out of the way, under the pretence that he is wanting a change, when it is the house that wants a change, and not he.

A

CLOVERBOBS;

OR, HOW DR. ROUNDER BEAT HIS BOYS.

QUEER old-fashioned house was "Cloverbobs," where the kind, sensible, but somewhat eccentric Dr. Rounder kept his school. It is somewhere between fifty and a hundred years ago that it was in its glory-now the good Doctor, and Mrs. Pinnicker, the housekeeper, ay, and many, most of his pupils have passed away, and of Cloverbobs not one stone remains on another to tell of old days.

Everybody (except the boys when they went back after the holidays) admired the old house, so picturesque, so venerable: its walls patterned here and there with white and black, something in the style of those lately existing in the good old town of Shrewsbury. Then its gables were many; and, although gables are apt to spoil the inside of a house, they look well outside. But where they were not confined by the gables, the rooms were large and the fireplaces ample. The boys used to say that the fireplaces were better than the fires, and the rooms too big by half in the winter, when only a few at a time had a chance of warming their fingers, and the rest had to play or fight at a distance to keep life in them. But who listens to what school-boys say when they find fault?

Dr. Rounder had educated some eminent men during his career, and sent forth able scholars, learned divines, and acute statesmen,