"I don't mean to say jealous; not of me--of course not. But the fact is, he fired up at a rudeness, a liberty that"-- "You don't say so, Ma'am!" cried the girl. "La, and if you please, how was that?" "Why, it was all folly--all nonsense--and he ought to have known better; but--there was a little flower-girl on the beach. What's the matter, JOSEPHINE?" for I saw the creature look suddenly confused. "Nothing, Ma'am--only I--I once saw that girl--a gipsey-girl, Ma'am--with flowers, Ma'am; yes, to be sure." "Then you know her?" I asked. "Can't say I know. Because one should hardly lower oneself to know a creature of that sort. Only once, and perhaps twice, I've had a nosegay of her." "Well, she _would_ give a nosegay to me," said I. "Just like 'em, Ma'am," replied JOSEPHINE. "Yes. She ran to me, and put a nosegay in my hand. And in that nosegay, what, JOSEPHINE--(and I watched her narrowly as I further questioned)--what do you think there was?" "Law! Who can answer for the gipsies," cried JOSEPHINE. "Well, then, there was a letter--a love-letter; and that letter finding its way to your master's hand"-- "Oh, Ma'am! _Do_ forgive me! Pray forgive me! I couldn't help it; but I see it all now. The gentleman _would_ write--that letter was not for you!"-- "No? For whom then?"-- "If you please, Ma'am, and you'll not be angry, that letter"--said the bold creature--"that letter was for me!"-- "For _you_! And here has nearly been murder done--here has your master"-- But at the moment FRED ran into the room, and I was in his arms. * * * * * [Illustration: UNCOMFORTABLE POSITION OF MR. JONES DURING A TABLE-TURNING EXPERIMENT. _N.B._ MR. JONES'S _skin is extremely sensitive; he must not remove his hands from the Table, and for 35 agonising minutes a wretched fly makes a promenade of his face_.] * * * * * THE MILESTONE TREADMILL. How to find fit work for convicts--work that shall at the same time be serviceable to the Public, and shall not take the bread out of the mouths of honest men--is a question that nobody has yet answered. Profound philosophers have sometimes got very near to the discovery of the quadrature of the circle, perpetual motion, the transmutation of metals, the elixir of life, the crystallisation of carbon, the longitude. They have almost succeeded; all but solved the problem; when, just on the verge of the accomplishment of the great work, they find all their profound calculations upset by some petty, superficial obstacle which they had overlooked. Precisely thus had we nearly attained to the invention of a proper employment for convicted thieves: just so were we confounded on the brink of success by a stumbling-block, which has tripped us up and flung us back again heels over head, alighting, however, on the former, as we always do.