"The Wandering Jew!" returned my husband, looking mystified.
"Yes, the fault lies with that imaginary personage," said I, "strange as it may seem." And then I related the mishaps of the morning. For desert, we had some preserved fruit and cream, and a hearty laugh over the burnt puddings and disfigured turkey.
Poor Kitty couldn't survive the mortification. She never smiled again in my house; and, at the close of the week, removed to another home.
CHAPTER III.
LIGHT ON THE SUBJECT.
"THE oil's out, mum," said Hannah, the domestic who succeeded Kitty, pushing her head into the room where I sat sewing.
"It can't be," I replied.
"Indade, mum, and it is. There isn't the full of a lamp left," was the positive answer.
"Then, what have you done with it?" said I, in a firm voice. "It isn't four days since a gallon was sent home from the store."