the air, caught it neatly and promptly, clapped the plate over it--the whole process done, I believe, in less than ten seconds. The difficulty was now over and I breathed relief. I went to my dining corner and sat down, intending to fetch the pancake in five minutes time. Three minutes perhaps I had been seated when I heard a loud voice cry--"Whose pancake is this burning on the stove?" How I did detest that man: he was always shouting through the kitchen--"Whose stew is this boiling over?" or "Whose tea is stewing on the fire?" The man always seemed to be poking his nose into other people's business. I did not think it worth while drawing every one's attention by answering him, but made my way as quietly as possible towards the stove. Alas! the idiot, not thinking that I was the owner of the pancake, and was then on my way to attend to it, shouted the second time, louder, and it seemed to me, too impatiently--"Whose pancake is this?" If I was vexed when I heard that second enquiry, imagine how I felt when every lodger in the kitchen, not seeing or hearing from the pancake's lawful claimant, began to shout in angry voices, "Whose pancake is that burning on the fire?" My own patience was now exhausted. "The pancake is mine," I said, "and what about it? What is all this fuss about? It is the first pancake I have ever attempted to make and by heavens! if it is to cause such a stir as this, it will be the last." But while I was making this speech another voice, which froze the blood in my veins cried angrily--"Whose pancake is this?" It was a woman's voice, it was the Mrs. of the house; and I now knew that something more serious was happening than the burning of a pancake--I was burning her frying pan. If I dallied in respect to my pancakes, I must certainly not make further delay in saving the frying pan. To her I at once apologised, but I gave that meddler a look that for ever again kept him silent as to what belonged to me. Such are the doings in a lodging house, vexatious enough at the time, but amusing to recall. CHAPTER XXVII FALSE HOPES The Farmhouse was under the management of an Irishman and his wife. He with a generous heart that always kept him poor, for he often assisted lodgers towards paying for their beds, who, I am sorry to say, were sometimes ungrateful in return. She, more circumspect, but kind hearted and motherly where she thought the case to be a deserving one. With regards to literary ambition I always kept my own counsel, confiding in one man only--"Cronje"; a man to be relied on, whose sympathetic ears were always open to receive either good or bad news.