The noise of our cab had brought Mrs. M'Collop to the door,--good
(or at least pretty good) Mrs. M'Collop, to whose apartments we had
been commended by English friends who had never occupied them.

Dreary as it was without, all was comfortable within-doors, and a
cheery (one-and-sixpenny) fire crackled in the grate. Our private
drawing-room was charmingly furnished, and so large that,
notwithstanding the presence of a piano, two sofas, five small
tables, cabinets, desks, and chairs,--not forgetting a dainty five-
o'clock tea equipage,--we might have given a party in the remaining
space.

"If this is a typical Scotch lodging, I like it; and if it is Scotch
hospitality to lay the cloth and make the fire before it is asked
for, then I call it simply Arabian in character!" and Salemina drew
off her damp gloves, and extended her hands to the blaze.

"And isn't it delightful that the bill doesn't come in for a whole
week?" asked Francesca. "We have only our English experiences on
which to found our knowledge, and all is delicious mystery. The tea
may be a present from Mrs. M'Collop, and the sugar may not be an
extra; the fire may be included in the rent of the apartment, and
the piano may not be taken away to-morrow to enhance the attractions
of the dining-room floor." (It was Francesca, you remember, who had
`warstled' with the itemised accounts at Smith's Private Hotel in
London, and she who was always obliged to turn pounds, shillings,
and pence into dollars and cents before she could add or subtract.)

"Come and look at the flowers in my bedroom," I called, "four great