that such a variety of dishes could have been produced out of
mutton. In fact we seemed to have everything at table except the
staple dish. Unlike the cook who actually sent me in a roast
shoulder of mutton for breakfast one morning, Isabella prided
herself on eliminating the monotonous animal from her bills of fare.
Certainly she was rather heavy on the sauces, etc., and I was trying
to pluck up courage to remonstrate, as it would not be easy or cheap
to replace them before a certain time of year. And then she was so
clean, so smiling, and so good-tempered. She seemed to treat us all
as if we were a parcel of children for whom she was never weary of
preparing surprises. As for me, I felt miserable if any shepherd or
well-to-do handsome young bachelor cockatoo came near the place,
dreading lest the wretch should have designs on my cook's heart and
hand. I rejoiced in her beard, and would not have had her without
it for worlds, as I selfishly hoped it might stand in her
matrimonial path.

This Arcadian state of kitchen affairs went on for exactly a
fortnight. One evening, at the end of that time, we had been out
riding, and returned as usual very hungry. "What are we going to
have for supper?" inquired F---. I told him what had been ordered;
but when that meal made its appearance, lo, there was not a single
dish which I had named! The things were not exactly nasty, but they
were queer. For instance, pears are not usually stewed in gravy;
but they were by no means bad, and we took it for granted it was
something quite new. The housemaid, Sarah, looked very nervous and
scared, and glanced at me from time to time with a very wistful
look; but I was so delightfully tired and sleepy--one never seemed
to get beyond the pleasant stage of those sensations--that I did not
ask any questions.