wail of a Scottish slogan or an Indian death-song, I heard--

"Oh, my poor darling! Oh, my poor dear angel! Oh, Mr. Butterby, how
_could_ you?"

"Madam," I inquired, in amazement, "how could I what?"

It may be well to state the endearing epithet was applied to Malinda
Jane.

"Oh, dear! dear! and all this time she has been scrimping and saving, I
was unconscious as a child unborn. Cruel, _cruel_ man!"

Mrs. Lawk, burying her hand in the depths of her pocket, drew forth an
attenuated handkerchief, and carefully wiped her eyes.

"Please, ma----" interrupted Malinda Jane.

"Never, _never_ again shall you leave my protecting wing. Oh, inhuman
monster, how _could_ you be so heartless?"

"Monster" was given with a decidedly unpleasant bite, and recalled my
calmness.

"Mrs. Mountchessington Lawk," I placidly observed, "I have not the
remotest idea what you are talking about."

"Moses Butterby, you're a brute."

She rose to her feet. A bundle, which, during the excitement, lay on her