pranks. The devilish pandemonium infuriated me. Letitia was tired and
wanted to go to bed. I was tired and hungry and disillusioned. It was
close upon midnight and the Swedish Thursday was about over. I thought
it unwise to allow them even an initial minute of Friday. When the clock
struck twelve, I marched majestically to the kitchen, threw open the
door, revealed the octette in the enjoyment of a mound of ice-cream and
a mountain of cake--that in my famished condition made my mouth
water--and announced in a severe, yet subdued tone, that the revel must
cease.

"You must go at once," I said, "I am going to shut up the house."

Then I withdrew and waited. There was a delay, during which a Babel of
tongues was let loose, and then Miss Lyberg's seven guests were heard
noisily leaving the house. Two minutes later, there was a knock at our
door and Miss Lyberg appeared, her eyes blazing, her face flushed and
the expression of the hunted antelope defiantly asserting that it would
never be brought to bay, on her perspiring features.

"You've insulted my guests!" she cried, in English as good as my own.
"I've had to turn them out of the house, and I've had about enough of
this place."

Letitia's face was a psychological study. Amazement, consternation,
humiliation--all seemed determined to possess her. Here was the obtuse
Swede, for whose dear sake she had dallied with the intricacies of the
language of Stockholm, furiously familiar with admirable English! The
dense, dumb Scandinavian--the lady of the "me no understand"
rejoinder--apparently had the "gift of tongues." Letitia trembled.
Rarely have I seen her so thoroughly perturbed. Yet seemingly she was