Lippincotts Magazine, July 1885 | Page 2

the Rubies *cles--J.F. Millet

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP, comprising the following Articles:
* The, "Additional Hair" Supply, The, Art of Modern Novel-Writing,
The, * Daniel Webster's "Moods," Dothegirls Hall, Etymology of
"Babe," The, Feuds and Lynch-Law in the Southwest, Future for
Women, A, Ice-Saints, The, Man who Laughs, The, Mystifications of
Authoresses, Old Songs and Sweet Singers, Reminiscence of Harriet
Martineau, A, Svenska Maid, A, Tourgéneff's Idea of Bazaroff,
Virginia Lady of the Old School, A, Why we Forget Names,

POETRY:
Carcanet, A, _John B. Tabb_ Elusive, _Sarah D. Hobart_ Epitaph
written in the Sand on a Butterfly Drowned in the Sea, Helen Gray
Cone Into Thy Hands, Stuart Sterne Mithra, _Charles L. Hildreth_
Morning, Florence Earle Coates On a Noble Character marred by
littleness, Charlotte Fiske Bates Probation, Florence Earle Coates Rose
Romance, Ada Nichols Shadows All, Paul Hamilton Hayne Song,
Robertson Trowbridge "What do I Wish for You?" ,Carlotta Perry
Wood-Thrush at Sunset,_Mary C. Peckham_
* * * * *
LIPPINCOTT'S MAGAZINE
_JULY, 1885_.

ON THIS SIDE.
VII.
It has not been concealed that, with all his fine qualities, Mr. Ketchum
was an obstinate man, and so, in spite of his wife's remonstrances, he
came down-stairs next morning--Sunday morning--in a dress that she
had assured him was "only fit for one's bedroom,"--namely, a very
gorgeous Oriental dressing-gown (Mabel's gift the preceding
Christmas), with a fez on his head, and on his feet a pair of slippers of
amazing workmanship and soundlessness, the joy of his feet, if not of
his heart. Thus accoutred, he prowled about on the lower floor, looking

after various things, and, going into the pantry for something, he
chanced to look through the small window used for the transmission of
dishes from the next room, and saw Parsons holding a pile of letters
one by one over a steaming kettle. Unconscious of his proximity, the
respectable Parsons dexterously and neatly opened several envelopes
with a practised hand, and then transferred the letters to her pocket, to
be enjoyed at her leisure, after which she laid hold of the kettle and
retired into the kitchen beyond.
"Well, upon my word, if that isn't the coolest thing I ever saw!"
exclaimed Mr. Ketchum mentally, and, feeling that he had made a great
discovery, was at first for sharing it immediately with Parsons's
mistress; but on reflection he thought differently. "It is her funeral: I
guess I had better not meddle: there would be a great scene," he thought.
"At any rate, I'll wait until they are leaving before putting her on her
guard." He went back to the dining-room to his newspaper, and sat
there until the others came down.
Miss Noel was not long in the room before an idea struck her. "Did you
not say that your post-bag containing the night's mail would be sent
over this morning?" she asked.
"I did. It came about an hour ago," said Mr. Ketchum.
"How very nice! I hope there may be something for me. It is so very
trying to get no news from England," said Miss Noel.
"Why, Mabel had twenty-three letters laid aside for you until you
should come. Didn't she give them to you?" asked Mr. Ketchum. "Were
none of those from England?"
"Oh, yes. But that was three days since, and I've heard nothing for a
fortnight. If Parsons has quite finished with the letters, I suppose I may
as well have them. And she must be, by this. Would you kindly ring
and send for them?" said Miss Noel.
"What! you know that she reads your letters?" exclaimed Mr. Ketchum,
surprised.
"Oh, dear, yes. They all do. It is very tiresome, but they will do it.
Parsons is generally good enough to let me have them quite promptly;
but she reads them, of course,--all but my cousin Blanche Best's letters.
Blanche has always been my most intimate friend, and can't bear the
idea: so she blocked the game by a most ingenious device. She writes
one sentence in French, the next in Italian, the third in English,--at least

she did until a happier plan suggested itself: now she writes English in
German text. It answers perfectly; but it is having a great effect on
Parsons, quite undermining her constitution, I fear, especially when
important things are happening at 'The Court,' where I often go. I
sometimes wickedly slip one of Blanche's letters under the pin-cushion,
as if with the intention of concealing it, and I have so enjoyed seeing
Parsons whip it under her apron when she got the chance, knowing that
she could not make out a single word. She really looked quite green
afterward for a week: pure chagrin."
"I am sure I have done everything that I could think of to keep my
letters from my man," said