“I thought it was mine,” I ventured.

“You talk to me of dinner!  Pass right along, please;” and I found myself back among the crowd, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying it.

There was a small cheer just then as the flames came through the roof.  Of Jones and his wife I saw nothing, but supposed they must have stayed on to enjoy their saddle of mutton, and wondered if they had kept mine hot for me.  I could have kept it hot in my own house, I reflected rather miserably.

* * * * *

The fire had been extinguished.  As the crowd dispersed I felt a touch on my shoulder.  It was the elderly constable, note-book in hand.  “You are Mr. Brown, Sir, of Myrtle Villa?” he inquired patiently.  “I haven’t had your name and address yet, Sir, for showing an unguarded light at the rear of the premises at 8 P.M.”

* * * * *

    “Plain Cook (good).  Wanted for country house; six
    kept.”—­Devon and Exeter Gazette.

Too many; sure to spoil the broth.

* * * * *

    “The Irish Party cars are placarded with posters calling on
    the electors to vote for ‘Unity and Party,’ and there are the
    cryptic words, ‘1/8 Up.  M’Kenna.’”—­Daily Paper.

But as the result of the election Mr. MCKENNA went to a slight discount.

* * * * *

A CHATEAU IN FRANCE.

  Artists reared it in courtly ages;
    WATTEAU and FRAGONARD limned its walls;
  Powdered lackeys and negro pages
    Served the great in its shining halls;
  Minstrels played, in its salons, stately
    Minuets for a jewelled king,
  And radiant gallants bowed sedately
    To lovely Pompadours curtseying.

  Pigeons cooed in its dovecots shady;
    Down in the rose-walk fountains played;
  Many a lovelorn lord and lady
    Here in the moonlight sighed and strayed;
  Here was beauty and love and laughter,
    Splendour and eminence bravely won;
  But now two walls and a blackened rafter
    Grimly tell the tale of the Hun.

  My lady’s chamber is dust and ashes;
    The painted salons are charred with fire;
  The dovecot pitted with shrapnel splashes,
    The park a tangle of trench and wire;
  Shell-holes yawn in the ferns and mosses;
    Stripped and torn is the avenue;
  Down in the rose-walk humble crosses
    Grow where my lady’s roses grew.

  Yet in the haunted midnight hours,
    When star-shells droop through the shattered trees,
  Steal they back to their ancient bowers,
    Beau Brocade and his Belle Marquise? 
  Greatly loving and greatly daring—­
    Fancy, perhaps, but the fancy grips,
  For a junior subaltern woke up swearing
    That a gracious lady had kissed his lips.

* * * * *