is rich as a Jew, and for all that, she made her only daughter
learn how to do all kinds of work. It would make her a better
wife, she said, and so, because _Ella_ had rather lie on the
sofa and read a nice novel than to be pokin' round in the kitchen
and tending to things, as he calls it, Mr. Hastings looks blue and
talks about _woman's_ duties, and all that nonsense. Recently
he has taken it into his head that late hours are killing her--
that it isn't healthy for her to go every night to parties,
concerts, operas, and the like o' that, so he's going to bury her
in the stupid country, where she'll be moped to death, for of
course there's nobody here that she'll associate with."

"The wretch!" exclaimed Eugenia, who formed one of the group of
listeners to this precious bit of gossip; but whether she intended
this cognomen for the cruel husband, or Mrs. Leah, we do not know,
as she continued to question the old lady of Mrs. Hastings
herself, asking if her health were delicate and if she were
pretty.

"Delicate! I guess she is," returned Mrs. Leah. "If she hasn't got
the consumption now, she will have it. Why, her face is as white
as some of them lilies that used to grow on the ponds in old
Connecticut; and then to think her husband won't let her take all
the comfort she can, the little time she has to live! It's too
bad," and the corner of Dame Leah's silk apron went up to her
eyes, as she thought how her lady was aggrieved. Soon recovering
her composure, she reverted to Eugenia's last question, and
hastened to reply, "_pretty_, don't begin to express it. Just
imagine the least little bit of a thing, with the whitest face,
the bluest eyes and the yellowest curls, dressed in a light blue