I glance up with languid surprise. "Anything you please," I say; "you are always very satisfactory. I told you I would leave everything to you. Why do you ask me to-day in particular?" "Law, mum, sure it's Christmas day, and I thought may be as 'ow---" "Christmas-day, is it," I exclaim, curiously. "Then I have been a whole fortnight in this place." "Yes, mum. A whole fortnight and one day, by five o'clock this hevening, precisely. I took the liberty of asking you to order dinner for this one night, thinking as you might put a name to something or other dainty that you fancies." "Indeed I have no choice, cook, and I am not at all hungry." "Likely enough, mum, considering it is now only twelve o'clock; but for a lady like yourself, as eats no luncheon to speak of, you will for certain be starved by seven." "I thought a Christmas dinner never varied, cook. You can have the usual thing, I suppose." "In course, mum," says cook, undaunted. She is a fine, fat, healthy-looking woman, with a large eye, and a slightly wheezy intonation, as though she were constantly trying to swallow some of her own good things that had inadvertently stuck in her throat. It seems to me that I ought to love this comfortable creature, who is so obstinately bent on flattering me against my will. "But whatever folks may say, a plum pudding for a delicate lady like you is uncommon 'eavy on the 'art and mind when bed-hour comes. If you would just say anything that would please you--something light that I might try my hand on--an ice-pudding, now?"--this with as near an attempt at coaxing as respect will permit. But the word "ice-pudding" calls up old memories: I remember my ancient weakness for that particular confection. My brows contract; a sharp pain fills my breast. "No, no! anything but ice-pudding," I say, hastily: "I--hate it." "Dear me, mum! now do you? Most of the quality loves it. Then what would you say? I'm a first-class hand in the pastry line---" "Make me--a meringue," I murmur, in despair, seeing I shall have to give in, or else go through a list from the cookery book, and fortunately remembering how I once heard a clever housekeeper say there were few sweets so difficult to bring to perfection. But the difficulty, if there is any, only enchants my goddess of the range. "Very good, mum; you shall 'ave it," she says, rapturously; and retires with flying colors, having beaten me ignominiously. A month--two months--go by, and still my self-imposed seclusion is unbroken. Now and again I receive a letter from former friends, but these I discourage. From mother I hear regularly once a week, whether I answer her or not. Poor mother! She has begged and prayed for permission to visit me, to see how time is using me, whether I am well or ill; but all to no avail. I will not be dragged out of the gloomy solitude in which I have chosen to bury myself.