What skill did she not practise, what devices of taste not display, to cover over the hard features of their stern poverty! The few little articles of plate which remained after the wreck of their fortune were placed on the sideboard, conspicuous amongst which was a cup “presented by his brother officers to Captain Paul Kellett, on his retirement from the regiment, with which he had served thirty-eight years,”--a testimonial only exhibited on the very most solemn occasions. His sword and sash--the same he wore at Waterloo--were arrayed over the fireplace, and his Talavera chako--grievously damaged by a French sabre--hung above them. “If he begins about 'that expedition,'”--it was thus he always designated the war in the Crimea,--“Bella, I 'll just give him a touch of the real thing, as we had it in the Peninsula! Faith, it wasn't digging holes in the ground we were then;” and he laughed to himself at the absurdity of the conceit. The few flowers which the garden owned at this late season, humble and common as they were, figured on the chimney-piece, and not a resource of ingenuity was neglected to make that little dinner-room look pleasant and cheery. Fully a dozen times had Kellett gone in and out of the room, never weary of admiring it, and as constantly muttering to himself some praise of Bella, to whose taste it was all owing. “I 'd put the cup in the middle of the table, Bella. The wallflowers would do well enough at the sideboard. Well, maybe you 're right, darling; it is less pretentious, to be sure. And be careful, dear, that old Betty has a clean apron. May I never, but she's wearing the same one since Candlemas! And don't leave her any corks to draw; she's the devil for breaking them into the bottle. I 'll sit here, where I can have the screw at my hand. There 's a great convenience in a small room, after all. By the good day, here 's Beecher!” exclaimed he, as that worthy individual approached the door. “What's all this for, Kellett, old boy? Are you expecting the Viceroy, or celebrating a family festival, eh? What does it mean?” “'T is a mutton chop I was going to give a friend of Jack's,--a young fellow that brought me a letter from him yesterday.” “Oh! your son Jack. By the way, what's his regiment,--Light Dragoons, is n't it?” “No; the Rifles,” said Kellett, with a short cough. “He's pretty high up for his lieutenancy by this, ain't he?” said Beecher, rattling on. “He Joined before Alma, didn't he?”