“The Wandering Jew!” returned my husband, looking mystified.

“Yes, the fault lies with that imaginary personage,” said I, “strange as it may seem.”  And then I related the mishaps of the morning.  For desert, we had some preserved fruit and cream, and a hearty laugh over the burnt puddings and disfigured turkey.

Poor Kitty couldn’t survive the mortification.  She never smiled again in my house; and, at the close of the week, removed to another home.

CHAPTER III.

Light on the subject.

“The oil’s out, mum,” said Hannah, the domestic who succeeded Kitty, pushing her head into the room where I sat sewing.

“It can’t be,” I replied.

“Indade, mum, and it is.  There isn’t the full of a lamp left,” was the positive answer.

“Then, what have you done with it?” said I, in a firm voice.  “It isn’t four days since a gallon was sent home from the store.”

“Four days!  It’s more nor a week, mum!”

“Don’t tell me that, Hannah,” I replied, firmly; “for I know better.  I was out on last Monday, and told Brown to send us home a gallon.”

“Sure, and it’s burned, mum, thin!  What else could go with it?”

“It never was burned in our lamps,” said I, in answer to this.  “You’ve either wasted it, or given it away.”

At this Hannah, as in honor bound, became highly indignant, and indulged in certain impertinences which I did not feel inclined to notice.

But, as the oil was all gone, and no mistake; and, as the prospect of sitting in darkness was not, by any means, an agreeable one—­the only remedy was to order another gallon.

Something was wrong; that was clear.  The oil had never been burned.

That evening, myself and husband talked over the matter, and both of us came to the conclusion, that it would never do.  The evil must be remedied.  A gallon of oil must not again disappear in four days.

“Why,” said my husband, “it ought to last us at least a week and a half.”

“Not quite so long,” I replied.  “We burn a gallon a week.”

“Not fairly, I’m inclined to think.  But four days is out of all conscience.”

I readily assented to this, adding some trite remark about the unconscionable wastefulness of domestics.

On the next morning, as my husband arose from bed, he shivered in the chilly air, saying, as he did so: 

“That girl’s let the fire go out again in the heater!  Isn’t it too bad?  This thing happens now every little while.  I’m sure I’ve said enough to her about it.  There’s nothing wanted but a little attention.”

“It is too bad, indeed,” I added.

“There’s that fishy smell again!” exclaimed Mr. Smith.  “What can it be?”

“Fishy smell!  So there is.”

“Did you get any mackerel from the store yesterday?”