Two o'clock was our regular dinner hour.
"Mercy!" ejaculated the frightened cook, as she sank back upon a chair; "I thought it was only a little past eleven.

I am sure it was only eleven when I sat down just to read a page or two while the puddings were in the oven!" The truth was, the "Wandering Jew," in the most exciting portion of which she happened to be, proved too much for her imagination.

Her mind had taken no note of time, and two hours passed with the rapidity of a few minutes.
"I don't exactly comprehend this," said my husband, as he sat down with his old friend, to dine off of broiled steak and potatoes, at half-past two o'clock.
"It's all the fault of the 'Wandering Jew!'" I replied, making an effort to drive away, with a smile, the red signs of mortification that were in my face.
"The Wandering Jew!" returned my husband, looking mystified.
"Yes, the fault lies with that imaginary personage," said I, "strange as it may seem." And then I related the mishaps of the morning.

For desert, we had some preserved fruit and cream, and a hearty laugh over the burnt puddings and disfigured turkey.
Poor Kitty couldn't survive the mortification.

She never smiled again in my house; and, at the close of the week, removed to another home..