Quick as thought I turned from my room, and went gliding down stairs.  As I neared the kitchen, the smell of burned flour, or pastry, grew stronger.  All was silent below; and I approached in silence.  On entering Kitty’s domain, I perceived that lady seated in front of the range, with a brown covered pamphlet novel held close to her face, in the pages of which she was completely lost.  I never saw any one more entirely absorbed in a book.  No sign of dinner was any where to be seen.  Upon the range was a kettle of water boiling over into the fire, and from one of the ovens poured forth a dark smoke, that told too plainly the ruin of my lemon puddings.  And, to cap all, the turkey, yet guiltless of fire or dripping pan, was upon the floor, in possession of a strange cat, which had come in through the open window.  Bending over the still entranced cook, I read the title of her book.  It was “The wandering Jew.”

“Kitty!” I don’t much wonder, now, at the start she gave, for I presume there was not the zephyr’s softness in my voice.

“Oh, ma’am!” She caught her breath as her eyes rested upon the cat and the turkey.  “Indeed, ma’am!” And then she made a spring towards puss, who, nimbly eluding her, passed out by the way through which she had come in.

By this time I had jerked open the oven door, when there came rushing out a cloud of smoke, which instantly filled the room.  My puddings were burned to a crisp!

As for the turkey, the cat had eaten off one side of the breast, and it was no longer fit for the table.

“Well! this is fine work!” said I, in an angry, yet despairing voice.  “Fine work, upon my word!”

“Oh, ma’am!” Kitty interrupted me by saying, “I’ll run right off and buy another turkey, and have it cooked in time.  Indeed I will, ma’am!  And I’ll pay for it.  It’s all my fault! oh dear! dear me!  Now don’t be angry, Mrs. Smith!  I’ll have dinner all ready in time, and no one will be any the wiser for this.”

“In time!” and I raised my finger towards the kitchen clock, the hands of which marked the period of half past one.  Two o’clock was our regular dinner hour.

“Mercy!” ejaculated the frightened cook, as she sank back upon a chair; “I thought it was only a little past eleven.  I am sure it was only eleven when I sat down just to read a page or two while the puddings were in the oven!”

The truth was, the “Wandering Jew,” in the most exciting portion of which she happened to be, proved too much for her imagination.  Her mind had taken no note of time, and two hours passed with the rapidity of a few minutes.

“I don’t exactly comprehend this,” said my husband, as he sat down with his old friend, to dine off of broiled steak and potatoes, at half-past two o’clock.

“It’s all the fault of the, ‘Wandering Jew!’” I replied, making an effort to drive away, with a smile, the red signs of mortification that were in my face.