" What do you all mean ?" cried the hungry travel-
ler, feltering. " Is it not a pigeon-pie, then ? Why
must I not touch it, Mary ? and what is Sylvo laugh-
ing at ? and what in the world do you all mean ?"

"Let me assist you, my dear sister. I have the
warmest satisfEu^ion in offering this wholesome fare to
you," said the philosophical head of the house. " So
many sanguinary meals have been discussed at my
table ; but we will make amends — we will make
amends."

With anything but the full and generous confidence
with which she would have received it, had it been the
pigeon-pie which her well-appetised imagination ex-
pected, Mrs Burtonshaw jealously inspected the con-
tents of her plate. " It's potatoes," cried Mrs Burton-
shaw, turning it over doubtfully with her fork. Then
there was a pause. " It's turnips ! " said the good
lady in a somewhat louder tone. Another pause.
" There's cabbage, I declare ! " cried the excited tra-
veller. Then, after a solemn interval, " It's a mess ! "



164 ZAIDEi:.
said Mrs Burtonshaw indignantly, and pushed her
plate away.
