CHAPTER XIX.
LOTS OF THINGS.
"O DEAR!" said I to Mr.Smith one morning, as we arose from the breakfast-table, at which we had been partaking of rather a badly-cooked meal,--"more trouble in prospect." "What's the matter now ?" asked Mr.Smith, with a certain emphasis on the word "now" that didn't sound just agreeable to my ears.
"Oh, nothing! nothing!" I answered, with as much indifference of manner as I could assume.
"You spoke of trouble," said he, kindly, "and trouble, in my experience, is rather more tangible than 'nothing.'" "I've another raw Irish girl in the kitchen, who, according to her own confession, hasn't been above ten days in the country.

Isn't that enough ?" "I should think so.

But, why, in the name of goodness did you take another of these green islanders into your house ?" "It's easy enough to ask questions, Mr.Smith," said I, a little fretfully; "but--" I checked myself.

We looked at each other, smiled, and--said no more on the subject.
"Your name is Anna, I believe ?" said I, as I stepped to the kitchen-door, a couple of hours afterwards.
"Thot's me name," replied the new domestic.
"I will send home a loin of veal and some green peas," said I."They are for dinner, which must be ready at two o'clock.

You know how to roast a piece of veal, I presume ?" "Lave me for thot same, honey!" "And the green peas ?" "All right, mum.