J. COLE. 9

and even for a centre vase of flowers I had
to ask, and often to insist, during the time she
was single-handed.

But here was my strawberry-bowl, a pretty
one, even when unadorned, with its pure white
porcelain stem, intwined with a wreath of blue
convolvulus, and then a spray of white, the
petals just peeping over the edge of the bowl,
and resting near the luscious red fruit; the
cream-jug, also white, had twining flowers of
blue, and round the lemonade-jug, of glass, was
a wreath of yellow blossoms.

“ How exquisite!” exclaimed we all. “What
fairy could have bestowed such a treat to our
eyes and delight to our sense of the beautiful?”

I supposed some friend of the cook’s or
Mary’s had been taking lessons in the art of
decoration, and had given us a specimen.

Soon after, my friends having gone, I thought
of J. Cole waiting to be dismissed, and sent
for him.

Cook came in, and with a preliminary
“Ahem!” which I knew of old meant, “I
have an idea of my own, and I mean to get
it carried out,” said, “Oh, if you please ’m,