Usually it happens that my good wife works herself half to death—­loses the even balance of her mind—­and, in consequence, makes herself and all around her unhappy.  To indulge in an unamiable temper is by no means a common thing for Mrs. Sunderland, and this makes its occurrence on these occasions so much the harder to bear.  Our last house-cleaning took place in the fall.  I have been going to write a faithful history of what was said, done, and suffered on the occasion ever since, and now put my design into execution, even at the risk of having my head combed with a three-legged stool by my excellent wife, who, when she sees this in print, will be taken, in nautical phrase, all aback.  But, when a history of our own shortcomings, mishaps, mistakes, and misadventures will do others good, I am for giving the history and pocketing the odium, if there be such a thing as odium attached to revelations of human weakness and error.

“We must clean house this week,” said my good wife one morning as we sat at the breakfast-table—­“every thing is in a dreadful condition.  I can’t look at nor touch any thing without feeling my flesh creep.”

I turned my eyes, involuntarily, around the room.  I was not, before, aware of the filthy state in which we were living.  But not having so good “an eye for dirt” as Mrs. Sunderland, I was not able, even after having my attention called to the fact, to see “the dreadful condition” of things.  I said nothing, however, for I never like to interfere in my wife’s department.  I assume it as a fact that she knows her own business better than I do.

Our domestic establishment consisted at this time of a cook, chamber maid, and waiter.  This was an ample force, my wife considered, for all purposes of house-cleaning, and had so announced to the individuals concerned some days before she mentioned the matter incidentally to me.  We had experienced, in common with others, our own troubles with servants, but were now excellently well off in this respect.  Things had gone on for months with scarcely a jar.  This was a pleasant feature in affairs, and one upon which we often congratulated ourselves.

When I came home at dinner-time, on the day the anticipated house-cleaning had been mentioned to me, I found my wife with a long face.

“Are you not well?” I asked.

“I’m well enough,” Mrs. Sunderland answered, “but I’m out of all patience with Ann and Hannah.”

“What is the matter with them?” I asked, in surprise.

“They are both going at the end of this week.”

“Indeed!  How comes that?  I thought they were very well satisfied.”

“So they were, all along, until the time for house-cleaning approached.  It is too bad!”

“That’s it—­is it?”

“Yes.  And I feel out of all patience about it.  It shows such a want of principle.”

“Is John going too?” I asked.

“Dear knows!  I expect so.  He’s been as sulky as he could be all the morning—­in fact, ever since I told him that he must begin taking up the carpets to-morrow and shake them.”