“I don’t know that we will.  But—­”

Just as I said this, my cook opened the door of the room where we were sitting and said—­

“Mrs. Jordon, ma’am, wants to borrow half a pound of butter.  She says, they are entirely out, and their butter-man won’t come before to-morrow.”

“Very well, Bridget, let her have it.”

The cook retired.

“Why do you wish to move, Jane?” asked my husband, as the girl closed the door.

“Cook’s visit was quite apropos,” I replied.  “It is on account of the ‘half pound of butter,’ ‘cup of sugar,’ and ‘pan of flour’ nuisance.”

“I don’t exactly comprehend you, Jane,” said my husband.

“It is to get rid of a borrowing neighbor.  The fact is, Mrs. Jordon is almost too much for me.  I like to be accommodating; it gives me pleasure to oblige my neighbors; I am ready to give any reasonable obedience to the Scripture injunction—­from him that would borrow of thee, turn thou not away; but Mrs. Jordon goes beyond all reason.”

“Still, if she is punctual in returning what she gets, I don’t know that you ought to let it annoy you a great deal.”

“There lies the gist of the matter, my dear,” I replied.  “If there were no ‘if,’ such as you suggest, in the case, I would not think a great deal about it.  But, the fact is, there is no telling the cups of sugar, pans of flour, pounds of butter, and little matters of salt, pepper, vinegar, mustard, ginger, spices, eggs, lard, meal, and the dear knows what all, that go out monthly, but never come back again.  I verily believe we suffer through Mrs. Jordon’s habit of borrowing not less than fifty or sixty dollars a year.  Little things like these count up.”

“So bad as that, is it?” said my husband.

“Indeed it is; and when she returns anything, it is almost always of an inferior quality, and frequently thrown away on that account.”

While we were talking, the tea bell rang, and we retired to the dining-room.

“What’s the matter with this tea?” asked Mr. Smith, pushing the cup I had handed him aside, after leaving sipped of its contents.  “I never tasted such stuff.  It’s like herb tea.”

“It must be something in the water,” replied I.  “The tea is the same we have been using all along.”

I poured some into a cup and tasted it.

“Pah!” I said, with disgust, and rang the bell.  The cook entered in a few moments.

“Bridget, what’s the matter with your tea?  It isn’t fit to drink.  Is it the same we have been using?”

“No, ma’am,” replied Bridget.  “It is some Mrs. Jordon sent home.  I reminded Nancy, when she was here for butter, that they owed us some tea, borrowed day before yesterday, and she came right back with it, saying that Mrs. Jordon was sorry it had slipped her mind.  I thought I would draw it by itself, and not mix it with the tea in our canister.”

“You can throw this out and draw fresh tea, Bridget; we can’t drink it,” said I, handing her the tea-pot.