on the vases, statuettes, chairs, tables, desks, curtains, papers, etcetera, etcetera, and, being utterly ignorant of what constituted right and what wrong in reference to such things, finally turned her eyes on Mrs Rose with an innocent smile.
"Don't you see that the shutters are neither shut nor barred, Matty?"
She had not seen this, but she at once went and closed and barred them, in which operation she learned, first, that the bars refused to receive their respective "catches," with unyielding obstinacy for some time; and, second, that they suddenly gave in without rhyme or reason and pinched her fingers severely.
"Now then, what next?" inquired Mrs Rose.
"Put out the gas," suggested Matty.
"And leave yourself in the dark," said the housekeeper, in a tone of playful irony.
"Ah! sure, didn't I forgit the candle!"
In order to rectify this oversight, Matty laid the unlighted candle which she had brought with her to the room on the writing-table, and going to the chimney-piece, returned with the match-box.
"Be careful now, Matty," said Mrs Rose earnestly. "There's nothink I've such a fear of as fire. You can't be too careful."
This remark made Matty, who was of an anxious temperament, extremely nervous. She struck the match hesitatingly, and lighted the candle shakily. Of course it would not light (candles never do on such occasions), and a long red-hot end of burnt wood projected from the point of the match.
"Don't let the burnt end drop into the wastepaper basket!" exclaimed Mrs Rose, in an unfortunate moment.
"Where?" exclaimed Matty with a start that sent the red-hot end into the centre of a mass of papers.
"There, just at your feet; don't be so nervous, girl!" cried Mrs Rose.
Matty, in her anxiety not to drop the match, at once dropped it into the waste-paper basket, which was instantly alight. A stamp of the foot might have extinguished it, but this did not occur to either of the domestics. The housekeeper, who was a courageous woman, seized the basket in both hands and rushed with it to the fireplace, thereby fanning the flame into a blaze and endangering her dress and curls. She succeeded, however, in cramming the basket and its contents into the grate; then the two, with the aid of poker, tongs, and shovel, crushed and beat out the fire.
"There! I said you'd do it," gasped Mrs Rose, as she flung herself, panting, into Mr Auberly's easy-chair; "this comes of bein' in a hurry."
"I was always unfort'nit," sighed Matty, still holding the shovel and keeping her eye on the grate, as if ready to make a furious attack on the smallest spark that should venture to show itself.
"Come, now, we'll go to bed," said Mrs Rose, rising, "but first look well round to see that all is safe."
A thorough and most careful investigation was made of the basket, the grate, and the carpet surrounding the fireplace, but nothing beyond the smell of the burnt papers could be discovered, so the instructor and pupil put out the gas, shut the door, and retired to the servants'-hall, where Hopkins, the cook, the housemaid, and a small maid-of-all-work awaited their arrival--supper being already on the table.
Here Mrs Rose entertained the company with a graphic--not to say exaggerated--account of the "small fire" in the study, and wound up with an eloquent appeal to all to "beware of fire," and an assurance that there was nothing on the face of the whole earth that she had a greater horror of.
Meanwhile the "little spark" among the papers--forgotten in the excitement of the succeeding blaze of the waste-paper basket--continued to do its slow but certain work. Having fallen on the cloth between two bundles, it smouldered until it reached a cotton pen-wiper, which received it rather greedily in its embrace. This pen-wiper lay in contact with some old letters which were dry and tindery in their nature, and, being piled closely together in a heap, afforded enlarged accommodation, for the "spark," which in about half an hour became quite worthy of being termed a "swell."
After that things went on like--"like a house on fire"--if we may venture to use that too often misapplied expression, in reference to the elegant mansion in Beverly Square on that raw November night.
CHAPTER TWO.
ANOTHER LITTLE "SPARK."
Whistling is a fine, free, manly description of music, which costs little and expresses much.
In all its phases, whistling is an interesting subject of study; whether we regard its aptitude for expressing personal independence, recklessness, and jollity; its antiquity--having begun no doubt with Adam--or its modes of production; as, when created grandly by the whistling gale, or exasperatingly by the locomotive, or gushingly by the lark, or sweetly by the little birds that "warble in the flowering thorn."
The peculiar phase of this time-honoured music to which we wish to draw the reader's attention at present, is that which
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