time dinners, of which the appearance of them gives no promise. Such a
kitchen was Mrs. Kelly's; and yet, it was well known and attested by
those who had often tried the experiment, that a man need think it no
misfortune to have to get his dinner, his punch, and his bed, at the
widow's.

Above stairs were two sitting-rooms and a colony of bed-rooms, occupied
indiscriminately by the family, or by such customers as might require
them. If you came back to dine at the inn, after a day's shooting on
the bogs, you would probably find Miss Jane's work-box on the table, or
Miss Meg's album on the sofa; and, when a little accustomed to sojourn
at such places, you would feel no surprise at discovering their
dresses turned inside out, and hanging on the pegs in your bed-room;
or at seeing their side-combs and black pins in the drawer of your
dressing-table.

On the morning in question, the widow and her daughters were engaged
in the shop, putting up pen'norths of sugar, cutting bits of tobacco,
tying bundles of dip candles, attending to chance customers, and
preparing for the more busy hours of the day. It was evident that
something had occurred at the inn, which had ruffled the even tenor of
its way. The widow was peculiarly gloomy. Though fond of her children,
she was an autocrat in her house, and accustomed, as autocrats usually
are, to scold a good deal; and now she was using her tongue pretty
freely. It wasn't the girls, however, she was rating, for they could
answer for themselves;--and did, when they thought it necessary. But
now, they were demure, conscious, and quiet. Mrs. Kelly was denouncing
one of the reputed sins of the province to which she belonged, and
describing the horrors of "schaming."