sight, laid in rows in poulterers' shops, have no association with
feathers. Don't you dislike the country friend who asks you to
spend a night, and then tells you at breakfast that the pillow you
slept on was filled with the feathers of departed hens known and
loved by her?

Then there was Nannie, and my, living in London added a great
importance to her position. She became at once chaperon,
housekeeper, counselor, and friend. It was a great joy to her to
think that she shielded me from the dangers of London; and she
would willingly have fetched me from dinners and parties
generally, and saw nothing incongruous in the announcement, " Miss
Lisle's nurse is at the door."

"Not that I should be at the door," said Nannie; "I never go
anywhere but what I am asked inside and treated as such." Nannie
still thinks of us as children, and will continue to do so, no
doubt until she who has rocked so many babies to sleep shall
herself be enfolded in the arms of Mother Earth -- and tenderly
bidden to sleep.

Personally I had a leaning toward a flat, so many of my friends
told me of the joys of shutting it up when one goes away, which,
by the way, I find they never, or very rarely, do. But Nannie
didn't hold with flats. It is curious what things people don't
hold with. After reading of a terrible murder in a railway
carriage, I cautioned my little housemaid, who was going home one
Sunday, to be careful not to be thrown out of a window. She
replied, "I don't hold with girls who are thrown out of windows."