“Well, anyhow,” said I, rallying myself, and speaking with some lightness of tone, “it is clear that Mrs. Tudor is no lady, for all you thought her such a pattern-card of gentility.”

“And I have not the least doubt,” retorted my wife, “that it is equally clear to Mr. Tudor that you are no gentleman.  So, on that score, the account stands fairly balanced between the two families.”

This was a pretty hard hit; and I felt a little “riled up,” as the Yankees say, but I concluded that the uttering of a few sharp sayings to my wife, under the circumstances, would not prove my claim to being a gentleman, especially against the facts of the case; so I cooled down, and walked home rather silently, and in not the best humour with myself.

On the next morning, I took up a little book from my wife’s bureau, and sat down to look over it while waiting for the breakfast bell.  It was a book of aphorisms, and I opened at once to a page where a leaf was turned down.  A slight dot with a pencil directed my eyes to a particular line, which read—­

“He who lives in a glass house shouldn’t throw stones.”

I am not sure that Mrs. Sunderland turned down that leaf in the book, and marked the sentiment for my especial benefit; though I strongly suspected her.  At any rate, I deemed it best not to ask the question.

GOING INTO MOURNING.

The weeping mother bent over the beautiful form of innocent childhood—­beautiful still, though its animating spirit had fled—­and kissed the pale cheek of her dear departed one.  When she lifted her head, a tear glistened on the cold brow of the babe.  Then the father looked his last look, and, with an effort, controlled the emotion that wellnigh mastered him.  The sisters came next, with audible sobs, and cheeks suffused with tears.  A moment or two they gazed upon the expressionless face of their dear little playfellow, and then the coffin lid was shut down, while each one present experienced a momentary feeling of suffocation.

As the funeral procession came out of the door, and the family passed slowly across the pavement to the carriages, a few gossiping neighbours—­such as, with no particular acquaintance with the principal members of a household, know all about the internal management of every dwelling in the square—­assembled close by, and thus discoursed of the events connected with the burying.

“Poor Mrs. Condy,” said one, “how can she bear the loss of that sweet little fellow!”

“Other people have lost children as well as she,” remarked a sour-looking dame.  “Rich people, thank heaven! have to feel as well as we poor folks.”

No one seemed disposed to reply to this; and there was a momentary silence.

“They’ve got up mourning mighty quick,” said a third speaker.  “Little Willie only died yesterday morning.”

“It’s most all borrowed, I suppose,” responded a fourth.