puddings were in the oven!"

The truth was, the "Wandering Jew," in the most exciting portion of
which she happened to be, proved too much for her imagination. Her
mind had taken no note of time, and two hours passed with the
rapidity of a few minutes.

"I don't exactly comprehend this," said my husband, as he sat down
with his old friend, to dine off of broiled steak and potatoes, at
half-past two o'clock.

"It's all the fault of the, 'Wandering Jew!'" I replied, making an
effort to drive away, with a smile, the red signs of mortification
that were in my face.

"The Wandering Jew!" returned my husband, looking mystified.

"Yes, the fault lies with that imaginary personage," said I,
"strange as it may seem." And then I related the mishaps of the
morning. For desert, we had some preserved fruit and cream, and a
hearty laugh over the burnt puddings and disfigured turkey.

Poor Kitty couldn't survive the mortification. She never smiled
again in my house; and, at the close of the week, removed to another
home.