“But we had so much tissue paper in London, and nothing else to wrap with,” was the very reasonable reply. “Fifteen sheets the tailor sent home with my one frock, and I am keeping most of it to use at Christmas time. Poor old shoe!” lifting it tenderly out of the trunk; “if mud were a dutiable article—and I only wonder it isn’t—you would come very expensive just now. Swiss mud, too, I do believe, never brushed off since that day at Grindelwald, and quite a relic. Don’t you think,” turning suddenly to me, “don’t you really think all this is fearfully funny?” In one sense I did, though the fun was of a strictly esoteric character, not appealing broadly to the crowd. But then Mr. Saintsbury assures us that real fun seldom does. Poor mother’s sense of humor was plainly unequal to the demand made upon it; cousin Jim, who had not spoken since his first repulse, looked more bewildered than amused; and even the inspector did not seem vastly entertained by the situation. The trunks had been examined, and their contents sadly disarranged; the handbags searched, and found to contain only toilet articles and underwear; the steamer rugs, unrolled, revealed nothing more precious than an old magazine and four battered French novels. As a result of over half an hour’s inquisition, the authorities had possessed themselves of two well-worn Roman blankets, a pretty, inexpensive little fan, painted on brown linen, a beer mug of Munich ware, and those five blue card-cases that had been so cheap in Paris. It hardly seemed as if the spoils were worth the conflict, or as if the three dollars and ninety cents duty charged on them could be a serious addition to the revenues of the United States. But the home-coming of one poor woman had been marred, and no salt-tax of ancient France was ever paid with more manifest reluctance and ill-will. “It’s the burning injustice of the thing I mind, Maisie,” was the vehement protest hurled at the inspector’s back. “There were plenty of people all around whose trunks were hardly touched. I watched one man myself, and he never lifted out a single thing—just turned the corners a little, and smoothed all down again. He was examining the Hardings’s luggage, too, and I know they have five times as much as we have—really costly, beautiful things—and they never paid a cent.” “But we didn’t pay a great deal,” returned the girl cheerfully. She was down on her knees now, deftly rearranging the disordered trunks. “Think of all our man might have found, and didn’t.” “Think of the shameful condition he left our clothes in!” said her angry mother. “It is an outrage. And those blankets! Everybody brings them, and nobody but ourselves has to pay. The Hardings had them, I know, and so did Miss Rebecca Chambers, and Mrs. Starr; and they all came in free.”