village, and come home greatly perturbed. You ask queer questions
of your humble serving-maid, assume a skirt which is shorter than
the approved model, speaking from the village standpoint, and
unhesitatingly appear on the public streets. You go to the attic
at night and search the inmost recesses of many old trunks."

"Yes," sighed Ruth, "I've done all that."

"At breakfast you refuse pie, and complain because the coffee is
boiled. Did anybody ever hear of coffee that wasn't boiled? Is it
eaten raw in the city? You call supper'dinner,' and have been
known to seek nourishment at nine o'clock at night, when all
respectable people are sound asleep. In your trunk, you have
vainly attempted to conceal a large metal object, the use of
which is unknown."

"Oh, my hapless chafing-dish!" groaned Ruth.

"Chafing-dish?" repeated Winfield, brightening visibly. "And I
eating sole leather and fried potatoes? From this hour I am your
slave--you can't lose me now!

"Go on," she commanded.

"I can't--the flow of my eloquence is stopped by rapturous
anticipation. Suffice it to say that the people of this
enterprising city are well up in the ways of the wicked world,
for the storekeeper takes The New York Weekly and the 'Widder'
Pendleton subscribes for The Fireside Companion. The back
numbers, which are not worn out, are the circulating library of