“Oh, thank you, mum!” she returned, as she took it, and trotted out of the room with what I thought at the time a highly satisfied air, (as well, indeed, she might.) In about half-an-hour, my lady marched into the parlour as coolly as possible, and saying she had done the dog in a blanket as I had desired, asked if she should bring it up stairs to me. “No,” I replied, quite innocently, “I don’t want to see it; you can put it on the fire now, and let it boil slowly for about an hour to an hour and a quarter, for I wouldn’t thank you for it unless it’s well done.” Open went her mouth again, and out came her eyes, while she stammered: “Boil it! why you don’t mean to say you’re going to eat it, mum?” “Eat it! of course I am--for dinner,” I replied. “Why, what on earth have you been doing with it? You have rolled it up, I suppose.” “Oh! yes, mum,” she answered, “as nice and snug as ever you seed anything in all your life.” “And you haven’t spared the jam--have you, simpleton?” I added. “Oh! no, mum,” she returned; “I emptied the whole pot.” “You’re sure you spread it on your crust an inch thick, now, as I told you?” I inquired; for I began to have my misgivings from the girl’s manner, that something or other was wrong. “Certainly, mum,” she replied, “on the crust and on the crumb too; and, with many thanks to you, mum, I eat as many as four slices.” “_You_ eat _my_ jam!” I screamed; “oh dear! you shameful wicked----! but what on earth has become of my beautiful dog in a blanket?” “He’s all safe, mum,” she answered, alarmed at my manner; “he’s down stairs--I put him in the baby’s cradle.” “In my sweet angel’s cradle!” I shrieked, and, saying no more, I rushed down stairs, when, sure enough, there I found that hairy brute of a Carlo of ours rolled up in one of the Witneys belonging to my baby’s bassinet, and, kicking away as if it were half stifled. “Oh, you good-for-nothing bit of goods!” I exclaimed--“how dare you, Emma, ever tell me such an abominable falsehood, as that you used to do a dog in a blanket every night at your last mistress’s!--oh! you wicked story, you!” “I’m nothing of the kind, mum, and it’s the plain truth!” she answered, sobbing, “and you can go and ask Miss Mackay yourself, if I hadn’t to do her Italian greyhound up in flannel every evening before I went to bed.” I declare even I--vexed as I was--could hardly give it the girl as _she_ deserved, and _I_ felt inclined to do. But, really, her utter want of even common comprehension did seem to me so pitiable, that I couldn’t bring myself to do more than tell her that I should have that pot of jam out of her next quarter, as sure as she was born--though as, luckily for her, she hadn’t wasted any flour, I should look over her shameful, idiotic conduct once more--giving her this warning, that if she didn’t contrive to cram some more brains into her head for the future, she must look out for another situation.