To be the son of two such prosaic people as Mr. Rayburn and his wife, Fred was rather a surprise. He was fond of poetry—even wrote something which he called by that name; he was fond of music, and played the flute a little. But quite enough too. He wished to have everything nice about him, but did not wish to take any trouble about it. He did his work as a clerk fairly well, but he did not like it, nor throw himself into it; he would have preferred to be a great painter, or a great singer, or author, or a traveller—anything, in fact, "with a little mind in it," he said to himself; and many of his poems were addressed to his mind, with which he condoled in pathetic terms. Meantime, on the whole, he enjoyed life very well; but he certainly wished Judith far away pretty frequently. On this very day on which Mr. Rayburn asked the question about a mistress for the house, Fred and Judith had had a "row-royal" about his boots—his best, beautiful new boots, which he had not used for some days, and which he had found in the kitchen, uncleaned, and with the frying-pan standing on their toes! And the dinner had been half done, and, in fact, nothing was as it ought to be. Now, to return to the conversation begun after dinner by Mr. Rayburn. Fred started, and turned round to look at his father. He had been engaged in writing the word "dust" in bold, legible letters on the looking-glass over the mantelshelf, but he left the "t" uncrossed, shook the dust off his finger, and stared at his father, getting very red. "Why, of course. Why, yes, father, I suppose we should. But I'm rather young yet, don't you think?" "What has your age to do with it, my boy?" "Why, of course my—that is, when I get married some day or other, the house will have a mistress, you know." Mr. Rayburn laughed. "I'm afraid we can't wait for that, Fred. I would part with Judith and try some one else, but that I have no hope that any servant will make us comfortable unless we went to far more trouble than I'm inclined to take. My work is quite enough for me. No, I thought of marrying myself." Fred looked thoughtful. "I declare, sir," said he presently, "it might be a very good plan." "There's only one objection against it, Fred. I can make no provision for my wife in case she survives me; or at least only a very small one. Your mother's money—a few hundreds—is settled on you, and the little I have saved ought to go to you too. For, you see, you may not get my situation when I am gone, and in that case you'll want a little capital; for you'll hardly go on as a mere clerk all your life. But if I state all this honestly to the lady I have in my mind, I think she would be reasonable. She is poor, and I suspect would gladly have a house of her own." "Who is it, father?"