J. COLE. 85

skin rug, and the floor being polished oak,
it was dangerous to step on this rug, for it
would slip away from the feet on the smooth
surface, and even the dogs avoided it, so
many falls had they met with upon it.

The first day of my husband’s arrival we
had my sister and a friend to dine, and had
been talking about Joe in the few moments
before dinner.

My husband had been laughing at the size
of my page, and scolding me a little, or
rather pretending to do so, for taking a
written character.

“Little woman,” he said, “don’t be sur-
prised if one night a few country burglars
make us a visit, and renew their acquaint-
ance with Mr. J. Cole.”

“You don’t know Joe,” I replied, “or you
would never say that.”

“Do you know him so well, little wife?”
said my dear sensible husband; “remember
he has only been in our service six months.
In the country he had very little of value
in his hands, but here, it seems to me, he
has too much. All the plate, and indeed