"My dear Eliza," I said, "I told you as plainly as possible that it was a matter of taste. You ought not to have left forty-eight at once."

"Oh, I couldn't keep running backwards and forwards leaving a few at a time. I've got something else to do. There's three pair of your socks in the basket waiting to be darned, as it is."

"And, good heavens! That Popworth can't be my Popworth. If he's only married this year, he can't, in the nature of things, have got eleven children. And a house like this can't call on a house like that without a something to justify it."

"That's what I thought."

"Then what on earth did you call for?"

"I didn't. Who said I did?"

I gave a sigh of relief. Later in the evening, when Eliza took a card, notched a bit out of each side, and began winding silk on it, I thought it wiser to say nothing. It is better sometimes to pretend not to see things.

ELIZA'S MOTHER

I generally send Eliza to spend a day with her mother early in December, and try to cheer her up a little. I daresay the old lady is very lonely, and appreciates the kindly thought. The return ticket is four-and-two, and Eliza generally buys a few flowers to take with her. That does not leave much change out of five shillings when the day is over, but I don't grudge the money. Eliza's mother generally tries to find out, without precisely asking, what we should like for a Christmas present. Eliza does not actually tell her, or even hint it—she would not care to do anything of that sort. But she manages, in a tactful sort of way, to let her know.

For instance, the year before last Eliza's mother happened to say, "I wonder if you know what I am going to give you th