Flora thought that she never had seen a person at Mrs. Kitson’s advanced stage of life with such a healthy, rosy visage. But every one has some pet weakness. Mrs. Kitson’s was always fancying herself ill and nervous. Now, Flora had no very benignant feelings towards the old lady’s long catalogue of imaginary ailments; so she changed the dreaded subject, by inquiring after the health of the old Captain, her husband. “Ah, my dear, he’s just as well as ever,—nothing in the world ever ails him; and little he cares for the sufferings of another. This is a great day with him; he’s all bustle and fuss. Just step to the window, and look at his doings. It’s enough to drive a sensible woman mad. Talk of women wearing the _smalls_, indeed! it’s a base libel on the sex. Captain Kitson is not content with putting on my apron, but he appropriates my petticoats also. I cannot give an order to my maid, but he contradicts it, or buy a pound of tea, but he weighs it after the grocer. Now, my dear, what would you do if the _Leaftenant_ was like my husband?” “Really, I don’t know,” and Flora laughed heartily. “It must be rather a trial of patience to a good housekeeper like you. But what is he about?” she cried, stepping to the window that overlooked a pretty lawn in front of the house, which commanded a fine view of the sea. “He and old Kelly seem up to their eyes in business. What an assemblage of pots and kettles, and household stuff there is upon the lawn! Are you going to have an auction?” “You may well think so; if that were the case, there might be some excuse for his folly. No; all this dirt and confusion, which once a week drives me nearly beside myself, is what K—— calls clearing up the ship; when he and his man Friday, as he calls Kelly, turn everything topsy-turvy, and, to make the muddle more complete, they always choose my washing-day for their frolic. Pantries and cellars are rummaged over, and everything is dragged out of its place, for the mere pleasure of making a litter, and dragging it in again. “Look at the lawn! Covered with broken dishes, earless jugs, cracked plates, and bottomless saucepans,” continued Mrs. Kitson. “What a dish of nuts for my neighbours to crack! They always enjoy a hearty laugh at my expense, on Kitson’s clearing-up days. But what does he care for my distress? In vain I hide up all this old trumpery in the darkest nooks in the cellar and pantry—nothing escapes his prying eyes; and then he has such a memory, that if he misses an old gallipot he raises a storm loud enough to shake down the house.