But, somehow, the week after, I began to be sensible of a running-down in the wheels. I had an article to write for the “Atlantic,” but felt mopish and could not write. My dinner had not its usual relish, and I had an indefinite sense everywhere of something going wrong. My coal bill came in, and I felt sure we were being extravagant, and that our John Furnace wasted the coal. My grandsons and granddaughters came to see us, and I discovered that they had high-pitched voices, and burst in without wiping their shoes, and it suddenly occurred powerfully to my mind that they were not being well brought up,--evidently, they were growing up rude and noisy. I discovered several tumblers and plates with the edges chipped, and made bitter reflections on the carelessness of Irish servants;--our crockery was going to destruction, along with the rest. Then, on opening one of my paper-drawers, I found that Jennie’s one drawer of worsted had overflowed into two or three; Jennie was growing careless; besides, worsted is dear, and girls knit away small fortunes, without knowing it, on little duds that do nobody any good. Moreover, Maggie had three times put my slippers into the hall-closet, instead of leaving them where I wanted, under my study-table. Mrs. Crowfield ought to look after things more; every servant, from end to end of the house, was getting out of the traces, it was strange she did not see it. All this I vented, from time to time, in short, crusty sayings and doings, as freely as if I hadn’t just written an article on “Little Foxes” in the last “Atlantic,” till at length my eyes were opened on my own state and condition. It was evening, and I had just laid up the fire in the most approved style of architecture, and, projecting my feet into my slippers, sat spitefully cutting the leaves of a caustic review. Mrs. Crowfield took the tongs and altered the disposition of a stick. “My dear,” I said, “I do wish you’d let the fire alone,--you always put it out.” “I was merely admitting a little air between the sticks,” said my wife. “You always make matters worse, when you touch the fire.” As if in contradiction, a bright tongue of flame darted up between the sticks, and the fire began chattering and snapping defiance at me. Now, if there’s anything which would provoke a saint, it is to be jeered and snapped at in that way by a man’s own fire. It’s an unbearable impertinence. I threw out my leg impatiently, and hit Rover, who yelped a yelp that finished the upset of my nerves. I gave him a hearty kick, that he might have something to yelp for, and in the movement upset Jennie’s embroidery-basket. “Oh, papa!” “Confound your baskets and balls! they are everywhere, so that a man can’t move; useless, wasteful things, too.” “Wasteful?” said Jennie, coloring indignantly; for if there’s anything Jennie piques herself upon, it’s economy.