The Curate blushed violently. In his boyhood's days he had put halfpennies down the back of his neck and jumped up and down until they percolated out in the region of his boots. He had only just checked himself in the act of advising the Old Lady to get up and jump. The Stockbroker was more practical, and soon consoled her. He was a season-ticket-holder, and knew the collector. He would explain it to the man. "You'll be able to get the ticket again, you see, when you--I mean, later on." The British love of euphemism had asserted itself. "And then you can send it to the collector by post. You had better write down your name and address to give him. I'll guarantee to the collector that it will be all right." The Old Lady overwhelmed him with thanks. Slowly and laboriously she wrote the name and address on the piece of paper in which the ticket was folded. All happened just as the Stockbroker had foretold. The Ticket-collector was very well satisfied and very much amused. TOM was waiting for her at the terminus, and took charge of her at once. "Ah!" said the Stockbroker to the Curate, when she had gone, "that's my notion of a dear Old Lady." "Everything about her was _so_ characteristic," answered the Curate, admiringly. Neither the Curate nor the Stockbroker had the advantage of hearing what the dear Old Lady said to Tom that afternoon. "It came off just beautifully, my boy. Not that I blame _them_, mind you,--how were they to know that it was a ticket which I didn't give up last year, and that I hadn't even taken a ticket at all to-day? No, I don't blame them. As for the address, I put the same address that was on the label of the Curate's bag, only I altered The Rev. CHARLES MARLINGHURST to Mrs. MARLINGHURST. And the Stockbroker guaranteed that I should send either the ticket or the money. So he'll have to pay up! Oh, my word! My gracious word, what a treat!" The dear Old Lady chuckled contentedly. Tom also chuckled. The Stockbroker subsequently relinquished to a great extent his habit of remarking upon his own marvellous intuition, enabling him to read character at sight; the Curate preached a capital sermon on the deceptiveness of man, and when he said man he meant woman. * * * * * TO A TOO-ENGAGING MAIDEN. [Illustration] I think you should know I've been put out of humour By something I hear very nearly each day. In a small town like ours, as you know, every rumour Gets about in a truly remarkable way. It is too much to hope for that women won't prattle, But I candidly tell you, I do feel enraged When I find that a part of their stock tittle-tattle Is that we--how I laugh at the thought!--are engaged.