"Look a-here," says she. "Isn't this something nice?" I looked! the basket was open. She held a tumbler in one hand and a bottle in the other, from which a stream of brandy gurgled. That rotund impostor came toward me, beaming. "There," says she, "take right hold. It's first-rate Cognac." All the Vermont blood in my veins riled suddenly. I drew myself up to the full queenly height that so many people have thought imposing. Disappointment sharpened virtue's indignation. "Madam," says I, "you have practised a hospitable fraud--in Christian charity I will call it hospitable--on a New England lady, who looks upon temperance as a cardinal virtue. Put up your bottle. Maple sap and sweet cider from straws are the strongest drinks I ever indulge in." "Maple sap," says she, with a rumbling, mellow laugh, which ended in a cough as the brandy went down her throat. "Sweet cider, through straws! Well, every one to her taste." Here she filled the glass again and held it out, smiling like a harvest moon. "What, you won't take the least nip, just to save it, you know?" I turned my back upon that rotund tempter, and walked with a stately step to the deck, followed by a rich gurgle from the second glass as it went down that perfidious creature's throat. "Goodness gracious! What a surprise!" This was my exclamation when I saw Mr. Burke coming towards me, across the deck, with a small basketful of the most delicious peaches in his hand. There he came, smiling so blandly, and held out the basket for me to help myself. He was going to Saratoga, he said. The hot season had driven him to seek mountainous air. O sisters! THE END. End of Project Gutenberg's Phemie Frost's Experiences, by Ann S. Stephens