days the broth was too strong, others too weak, or the salt was in excess, or the pepper, or a pinch of this or that would have improved the flavour. Poor Mary, did it ever set you thinking, I wonder, what an ideal mother-in-law your aunt would make? Then, when the ball had been extracted from my arm and my shoulder began to look less like a lump of liver, it became clear to my mother that I was in need of spiritual comfort. The big Family Bible was brought from the parlour and placed on a little table by my bedside. I was perfectly capable of reading it for myself, but that would not have suited my nurse. She read with difficulty and had many a stubborn tussle with the hard words. At first I helped her with them but soon perceived she took a delight in the struggle and so left her to grapple with them. As she opined my illness would be a long one and she did not mean to be gravelled for lack of matter, she began at the first chapter of the Book of Genesis and advanced by slow stages to the tenth, when she floundered in a genealogical bog from which she brought forth, I fear, only one piece of abiding information, to wit, that the eldest son of Eber bore the same name as the crippled son of the village postmaster--Peg-leg. Dr. Dean was her great comfort during this enforced confinement. Twice daily did that cheery visitor drive up to Holme, and from the long stay that his champing, stamping mare made by our door, the neighbours drew gloomy auguries as to my mother's desperate state. If they could have seen him sat in an easy chair, profaning the chaste sanctity of the bedroom with tobacco smoke, and relishing our best Hollands while he detailed the village gossip to my mother's delighted ears, they would have had less concern for the good soul's health. My mother declared the doctor's visits were worth a guinea apiece. "Mrs. Garside's been enquiring after yo' Mrs. Bamforth." Now this was that Hannah Garside who had pulled up my mother's half-cousin, Sam o' Sall's, because of the eggs. "She met save her breath to cool her porridge," was my mother's ungrateful comment. "She says she freely forgives yo', ma'm." "The imperence on her. Ah! wait till I get better, an' I'll gi'e her forgive me!" "She promises to pray for you, Mrs. Bamforth." "To pray for me! Hannah Garside, pray for me! Oh! this must be stopped, doctor. It's too bad 'at she's none content wi' makin' th' village unbearable an' nah mun' be bringing me into bad odour wi' th' saints above." "She sends her compliments, ma'am, and says if I prescribe custards she won't venture to send any batter as it's well known your family knows a way o' never being short o' eggs."