Rose Clark

o wash away its strength when made. The warm biscuit were as fragrant as the tea, and the butter might have won the prize at any agricultural fair. The room too, in which the tea-table was spread, had every appliance for the consolation of a single woman. Comfortably plump sofas and chairs, a looking-glass, selected for its peculiar faculty of adding breadth to an unnecessarily elongated face; a handsome, well-filled bottle of Cologne, another of Bay Water, and a work-box, with all sorts of industrial appendages, the gift of Mr. Balch. Then, for the look of the thing, a few books, newspapers, pamphlets, etc., for Mrs. Markham never read; partly because she had a surfeit in the book line in the school-room, but principally, because publishers and editors had a sad wayof making their types so indistinct now-a-days; or in other words, Markham had a strong aversion to spectacles. There were no pictures or flowers in the room, because the former " marked the walls," and the latter " kept dropping their leaves on the carpet;" but there were two smart, gilt candelabras on the mantle, and a email clock between them, and an hour glass, and a stuffed owl. There was also a light kid glove, which- always lay there, because it served for a text for Mr. Balch's little complimentary speeches about hands and hearts, and pairs, etc. Mrs. Markham was always going to put it away, but somehow she never did so. " Ah, Timmins, is that you ? come in. Is Tibbs any better," asked ...