ing of her candles, and by how many intricate devices the dear old lady sought to cherish and protect these objects of her tender solicitude.
"They (the candles) were usually brought in with tea, but we only burned one at a time. As we lived in constant preparation for a friend who might come in any moment (but who never did), it required some contrivance to keep them of the same length, ready to be lighted, and to look as if we burned two always. They took it in turns, and, whatever we might be talking about or doing, Miss Matty's eyes were habitually fixed upon the candle, ready to jump up and extinguish it, and to light the other, before they had become too uneven in length to be restored to equality in the course of the evening."
This little scene of innocent deception is finer, in its way, than the famous newspaper paths on which Miss Deborah's guests step lightly over her new carpet to their respective chairs. We sympathize with Miss Matty's anxiety about her tapers because it represents one phase of a weakness common to all mankind, and far remote, we trust, from mere vulgar parsimony, which, seeking to stint in all
