shuddering reminiscence of the steam-packet; and, what with this dread, and their inability to ask questions, Mr. and Mrs. Dundyke were nearly starved. One day in particular it was very sad. They had halted at an inn in a good-sized town, not very far distant from Lyons. While the soup and bouilli were being devoured, the two unfortunates ate a stray radish or two, when up bustled the waiter with a funny-looking dish, its contents wonderfully like what a roast-beef eater might suppose cooked frogs to be, and presented it to Mr. Dundyke. "What's this?" inquired Mr. Dundyke, delicately adventuring the tip of a fork towards the suspicious-looking compound, by way of indicating the nature of his question. "Plait-il, monsieur?" "This, _this_," rapping the edge of the dish with the fork; "what is it made of? what do you call it?" "Une fricassée de petits pigeons, à l'oseille, monsieur," replied the discerning waiter. Poor Mr. Dundyke pushed the dish away from him with a groan. "Une fricassée de petits pigeons, à l'oseille" in French, might be "Stewed frogs" in English. "What was all that green mess in the dish?" asked his wife. "The saints know," groaned the common-councilman. "Perhaps it's the fashion here to cook frogs in their own rushes." Up came the waiter with another dish, that attentive functionary observing that the Monsieur Anglais ate nothing. A solid piece of meat, with little white ends sticking out of it, rising out of another bed of green. "Oseille" is much favoured in these parts of France. "Whatever's this?" ejaculated the common-councilman, eyeing the dish with wondering suspicion. "It's as much like a porkipine as anything I ever saw. What d'ye call it?" rapping the edge of the dish as before. "Foie-de-veau lardé, à l'oseille, monsieur." The common-councilman was as wise as before, and sat staring at it. "It can't be frogs, David, this can't," suggested Mrs. Dundyke, "it is too large and solid; and I don't think it's any foreign animal. It looks to me like veal. Veal, waiter?" she asked, appealingly. "Oui, madame," was the answer, at a venture. "And the green stuff round it is spinach, of course. Veal and spinach, my dear." "That's good, that is, veal and spinach. I'll try it," said Mr. Dundyke. He helped himself plentifully, and, pushing the dish to his wife, voraciously took the first mouthful, for he was fearfully hungry. It was a rash proceeding. What in the world had he got hold of! Veal and spinach!--Heaven protect him from poison! It was some horrible, soft compound, sharp and sour; it turned him sick at once, and set his teeth on edge. He became very pale, and called faintly for the waiter. But the garçon had long ago whisked off to other parts of the room, and there was Mr. Dundyke obliged to sit with that nauseous mystery underneath his very nose.