“‘Humph!’ again said Mrs. Matthews. “‘My cousin Mary will be so disappointed.’ “‘Humph!’ “‘And I half promised my cousin William—poor William!’ “‘Humph!’ again. “‘Poor William! Oh, grandmother, do let me go! And I’ve got my new hat and all—just such a hat as William likes! Poor William! You will let me go, grandmother?’ “And receiving no answer but a very unequivocal ‘Humph!’ poor Patty threw down her hat, fetched a deep sigh, and sat in a most disconsolate attitude, snipping her pink riband to pieces. Mrs. Matthews went on manfully with her ‘stitchery,’ and for ten minutes there was a dead pause. It was at last broken by my little friend and introducer, Susan, who was standing at the window, and exclaimed: ‘Who is this riding up the meadow all through the rain? Look!—see!—I do think—no, it can’t be—yes it is—it is certainly my cousin William Ellis! Look, grandmother!’ “‘Humph!’ said Mrs. Matthews. “‘What can cousin William be coming for?’ continued Susan. “‘Humph!’ quoth Mrs. Matthews. “‘Oh, I know!—I know!’ screamed Susan, clapping her hands and jumping for joy as she saw the changed expression of Patty’s countenance,—the beaming delight, succeeded by a pretty downcast shamefacedness as she turned away from her grandmother’s arch smile and archer nod. ‘I know! I know!’ shouted Susan. “‘Humph!’ said Mrs. Matthews. “‘For shame, Susan! Pray don’t, grandmother!’ said Patty imploringly. “‘For shame! Why I did not say he was coming to court Patty! Did I, grandmother?’ returned Susan. “‘And I take this good lady to witness,’ replied Mrs. Matthews, as Patty, gathering up her hat and her scraps of riband, prepared to make her escape. ‘I take you all to witness that I have said nothing of any sort. Get along with you, Patty!’ added she, ‘you have spoilt your pink trimming, but I think you are likely to want white ribands next, and if you put me in mind, I’ll buy them for you!’ And smiling in spite of herself the happy girl ran out of the room.” In one of her tales Miss Mitford describes a fog in her village and its surrounding neighbourhood, contrasting it with a fog in London. “A London fog,” she writes, “is a sad thing, as every inhabitant of London knows full well: dingy, dusky, dirty, damp; an atmosphere black as smoke and wet as steam, that wraps round you like a blanket; a cloud reaching from earth to heaven; ‘a palpable obscure,’ which not only turns day into night, but threatens to extinguish the lamps and lanthorns with which the poor street wanderers strive to illuminate their darkness.... Of all detestable things a London fog is the most detestable.