"Yes, ma'am."
"Tell Betty—where's my other slipper? Oh! here it is—tell Betty—did you take down my wine-colored brocade, Patty?—tell Betty—it's no matter, Patty; I don't know what I was going to tell you."
Patty had nearly closed the door, when she again heard her name called.
"I've just thought what I wanted to say, Patty: did you clean the silver, this morning?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And wash the parlor looking-glass?"
"You told me not to do that, ma'am."
"Oh! so I did. Where's my other under-sleeve? Gracious! you burned a hole in it, ironing it. Oh, no; it is a fuzz of black silk sticking to it. There, do go along, Patty; I want to dress;" and the fussy Mrs. Howe locked the door, and gave herself up to the undisturbed contemplation of her new Honiton pelerine and gold bracelet.
Dinner had been satisfactorily discussed, and Mrs. Howe sat back in her cushioned chair to the work of digestion, and self-appreciation, while John retired to smoke.