Elizabeth Eliza asked when the others had their supper. "Oh, they took it a long time ago," Martha answered. "If the lady will go out into the kitchen she can tell what she wants." "Bring us in what you have," said Mr. Peterkin, himself quite hungry. "If you could cook us a fresh slice of beefsteak that would be well." "Perhaps some eggs," murmured Mrs. Peterkin. "Scrambled," cried one of the little boys. "Fried potatoes would not be bad," suggested Agamemnon. "Couldn't we have some onions?" asked the little boy who had stayed at home, and had noticed the odor of onions when the others had their supper. "A pie would come in well," said Solomon John. "And some stewed cherries," said the other little boy. Martha fell to laying the table, and the family was much pleased, when, in the course of time, all the dishes they had recommended appeared. Their appetites were admirable, and they pronounced the food the same. "This is true Arab hospitality," said Mr. Peterkin, as he cut his juicy beefsteak. "I know it," said Elizabeth Eliza, whose spirits began to rise. "We have not even seen the host and hostess." She would, indeed, have been glad to find some one to tell her when the Sylvesters were expected, and why they had not arrived. Her room was in the wing, far from that of Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin, and near the aged deaf and foreign ladies, and she was kept awake for some time by perplexed thoughts. She was sure the lady from Philadelphia, under such circumstances, would have written to somebody. But ought she to write to Ann Maria or the Sylvesters? And, if she did write, which had she better write to? She fully determined to write, the first thing in the morning, to both parties. But how should she address her letters? Would there be any use in sending to the Sylvesters' usual address, which she knew well by this time, merely to say they had not come? Of course the Sylvesters would know they had not come. It would be the same with Ann Maria. She might, indeed, inclose her letters to their several postmasters. Postmasters were always so obliging, and always knew where people were going to, and where to send their letters. She might, at least, write two letters, to say that they--the Peterkins--had arrived, and were disappointed not to find the Sylvesters. And she could add that their trunks had not arrived, and perhaps their friends might look out for them on their way. It really seemed a good plan to write. Yet another question came up, as to how she would get her letters to the post-office, as she had already learned it was at quite a distance, and in a different direction from the station, where they were to send the next day for their trunks. She went over and over these same questions, kept awake by the coughing and talking of her neighbors, the other side of the thin partition. She was scarcely sorry to be aroused from her uncomfortable sleep by the morning sounds of guinea-hens, peacocks, and every other kind of fowl.