But she cared nothing for our “Madam,” and condescended to no apology. Rising from her chair, she asked us why we had not kept the promise we had made her to use her article in our next number. We don’t know how far our readers will understand all that was included in this accusation. Use her contribution in our next number! It had never occurred to us as probable, or hardly as possible, that we should use it in any number. Our eye glanced at the heap to see whether her fingers had been at work, but we perceived that the heap had not been touched. We have always flattered ourselves that no one can touch our heap without our knowing it. She saw the motion of our eye, and at once understood it. Mrs. Brumby, no doubt, possessed great intelligence, and, moreover, a certain majesty of demeanour. There was always something of the helmet of Minerva in the bonnet which she wore. Her shawl was an old shawl, but she was never ashamed of it; and she could always put herself forward, as though there were nothing behind her to be concealed, the concealing of which was a burden to her. “I cannot suppose,” she said, “that my paper has been altogether neglected!” We picked out the roll with all the audacity we could assume, and proceeded to explain how very much in error she was in supposing that we had ever even hinted at its publication. We had certainly said that we would read it, mentioning no time. We never did mention any time in making any such promise. “You named a week, Sir,” said Mrs. Brumby, “and now a month has passed by. You assured me that it would be accepted unless returned within seven days. Of course it will be accepted now.” We contradicted her flatly. We explained, we protested, we threatened. We endeavoured to put the manuscript into her hand, and made a faint attempt to stick it into her bag. She was indignant, dignified, and very strong. She said nothing on that occasion about legal proceedings, but stuck manfully to her assertion that we had bound ourselves to decide upon her manuscript within a week. “Do you think, Sir,” said she, “that I would entrust the very essence of my brain to the keeping of a stranger, without some such assurance as that?” We acknowledged that we had undertaken to read the paper, but again disowned the week. “And how long would you be justified in taking?” demanded Mrs. Brumby. “If a month, why not a year? Does it not occur to you, Sir, that when the very best of my intellect, my inmost thoughts, lie there at your disposal,” and she pointed to the heap, “it may be possible that a property has been confided to you too valuable to justify neglect? Had I given you a ring to keep you would have locked it up, but the best jewels of my mind are left to the tender mercies of your charwoman.” What she said was absolutely nonsense,--abominable, villanous trash; but she said it so well that we found ourselves apologising for our own misconduct. There had perhaps been a little undue delay. In our peculiar business such