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"Well, it always is on her head," says Mr. Rodney, at which ridiculous joke they both laugh as gayly as though it were a bon-mot of the first water. That "life is thorny, and youth is vain" has not as yet occurred to either of these two. Nay, more, were you even to name this thought to them, they would rank it as flat blasphemy, and you a false prophet—love and laughter being, up to this, the burden of their song. "This day week, then," he says, having heard, and taken to heart the wisdom of, the old maxim about striking while the iron is hot. There is a pause. In shrinking doubt she awaits the moment that shall make him take advantage of her words. But that moment never comes. In vain she waits. At length she lifts her eyes, and he, flinging the parchment at her feet, cries, roughly,—.
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"Oh, fancy receiving the Boers whenever they call!" says Doatie, faintly, with a deep sigh that is almost a groan. Next morning the wife and the little boy went out to dig roots, and the woman took the root digger with her, while the dog followed the little boy. "This is too dreadful!" moans Lady Rodney, sinking back again in her chair, utterly overcome by this last crowning blow. She clasps her hands with a deplorable gesture, and indeed looks the very personification of disgusted woe. "Eh?" says Mrs. Geoffrey..
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