in people that’s got it, they will bring it out in people who never had it at all.  We was told that we ought not to do anything in the bathing line without the advice of a doctor; but those little tanks in the floors of the bathrooms, all lined with tiles and filled with warm, transparent water, that you went down into by marble steps, did seem so innocent, that I didn’t believe there was no need in asking questions about them.  Jone wanted me to stay three weeks longer until I was cured, but I wouldn’t listen to that.  I was wild to get to Scotland, and as my rheumatism did not hinder me from walking, I didn’t mind what else it did.

And there is another thing I must tell you.  One day when I was sitting by myself on The Slopes waiting for Jone, about lunch time, and with a reminiscence floating through my mind of the Devonshire clotted cream of the past, never perhaps to return, I saw an elderly woman coming along, and when she got near she stopped and spoke.  I knew her in an instant.  She was the old body we met at the Babylon Hotel, who told us about the cottage at Chedcombe.  I asked her to sit down beside me and talk, because I wanted to tell her what good times we had had, and how we liked the place, but she said she couldn’t, as she was obliged to go on.

“And did you like Chedcombe?” said she.  “I hope you and your husband kept well.”

I said yes, except Jone’s rheumatism, we felt splendid; for my aches hadn’t come on then, and I was going on to gush about the lovely country she had sent us to, but she didn’t seem to want to listen.

“Really,” said she, “and your husband had the rheumatism.  It was a wise thing for you to come here.  We English people have reason to be proud of our country.  If we have our banes, we also have our antidotes; and it isn’t every country that can say that, is it?”

[Illustration:  “And did you like Chedcombe?”]

I wanted to speak up for America, and tried to think of some good antidote with the proper banes attached; but before I could do it she gave her head a little wag, and said, “Good morning; nice weather, isn’t it?” and wobbled away.  It struck me that the old body was a little lofty, and just then Mr. Poplington, who I hadn’t noticed, came up.

“Really,” said he, “I didn’t know you was acquainted with the Countess.”

“The which?” said I.

“The Countess of Mussleby,” said he, “that you was just talking to.”

“Countess!” I cried.  “Why, that’s the old person who recommended us to go to Chedcombe.”

“Very natural,” said he, “for her to do that, for her estates lie south of Chedcombe, and she takes a great interest in the villages around about, and knows all the houses to let.”

I parted from him and wandered away, a sadness stealing o’er my soul.  Gone with the recollections of the clotted cream was my visions of diamond tiaras, tossing plumes, and long folds of brocades and laces sweeping the marble floors of palaces.  If ever again I read a novel with a countess in it, I shall see the edge of a yellow flannel petticoat and a pair of shoes like two horse-hair bags, which was the last that I saw of this thunderbolt into the middle of my visions of aristocracy.