"Refreshments were offered to me," says I, "and I accepted them, as a free-born American woman has a right to do at her country's table." "What are you talking about?" says Cousin Dempster, almost angry. "What is that in your hand?" "A bit of paper that the young man gave me as I came out," says I. "But you should have given this up," says he, turning red. "What for?" says I. "Did you pay nothing?" "Pay! of course not. Who ever thinks of paying anything to the Government?" "You do not understand." "What?" "You have been into a restaurant," says he. "That's more than I know of, never having been in one in my born days." "And have come away with this!" "Look a-here, Cousin Dempster," says I; "does this great nation keep a boarding-house, or a tavern, in its Capitol? That's what I want to know. Do you think I mean to insult the country I was born in?" "It keeps a restaurant for the accommodation of members," says he, "and you've been in it. Just give me that check; the country don't feed its statesmen--at any rate, directly." I gave him the square bit of paper, and, when he left me alone, just sat down on those marble steps and waited. I don't wonder these investigating committees want to shirk their duties. I, being only a committee of one, and self-constituted, feel as if I'd had quite enough of exploring downstairs. But what on earth Cousin Dempster is making such a fuss about, I have no idea. One would think there was something dreadful on that square piece of paper by the way he acted; but he's like everybody else, I suppose, when he gets to Washington, and can't make himself more than half understood on any subject. XLIV. MARBLE HALLS. Dear sisters:--In my last report I gave you a dim account of the underground department of Congress. In fact, it was so dim down there, that I couldn't see anything clearly. I hope this report will have a little more brightness in it; but of that I am not at all certain, for a downright honest look at anything here in Washington is like snatching at a handful of fog. After wandering over all that town of cellars and basements, in search of the whitewashing department and the washing-room, I came away without seeing a sign of them. It seems to me that the cooking and eating is all that one finds done openly here. About that, too, there is something that riles the New England blood in my veins. No wonder I couldn't make out half that those waiter chaps said to me.