pudding that has come "beautifully" out of the mould. In fact it seems
that good Mrs. Potts has converted her whole "receipt book" into shelves
of substantial and dainty representatives, but such fruitful
contemplations as these will surely rouse one to action, and appropriate
"action" in a well-filled pantry forebodes merciless slaughter for these
culinary imitations of animal life.

Upstairs appeals less dangerously to the material element. It is neat
and enticing everywhere. There is the sitting room where Mr. Rayne spent
his long, thoughtful night under the gaslight with Robert Edgeworth's
letter lying between his numbed fingers. The fire burns there cheerfully
now--there is no other light than that cast by the fitful flames which
leap and dwindle in shadows through the twilight that lingers still,
huge fanciful phantoms skipping over the walls and the ceiling and
floor, a little flickering subdued light that trembles on the great arm
chairs. "Flo" is curled up, with both ends saluting one another, on the
velvet rug before the fender, and at a civil distance away is a purring
bundle of gray and white pussy, with her paws doubled in and her eyes
blinking at the half-burned coals. There is a bird cage in each window,
and an odd little lullaby chirp or the grating of the little iron swings
is the only sound besides the loosening and falling of the embers every
now and then.

Opposite to this is the large drawing room with its deep bay window, its
rich carpet and massive furnishings. Not the stiff formal looking parlor
of a lone bachelor, but the comfortable, tastily arranged room of a man
who had confided such things to the better judgment and defter hands of
a woman. There are fine statues and splendid paintings, and
_bric-a-brac_ enough to deceive anyone into believing it to be the home
of a bevy of girls. There is a grand piano in the end of the room, and a