CHAPTER III.
LIGHT ON THE SUBJECT.
"THE oil's out, mum," said Hannah, the domestic who succeeded Kitty, pushing her head into the room where I sat sewing.
"It can't be," I replied.
"Indade, mum, and it is.

There isn't the full of a lamp left," was the positive answer.
"Then, what have you done with it ?" said I, in a firm voice.

"It isn't four days since a gallon was sent home from the store." "Four days! It's more nor a week, mum!" "Don't tell me that, Hannah," I replied, firmly; "for I know better.
I was out on last Monday, and told Brown to send us home a gallon." "Sure, and it's burned, mum, thin! What else could go with it ?" "It never was burned in our lamps," said I, in answer to this.
"You've either wasted it, or given it away." At this Hannah, as in honor bound, became highly indignant, and indulged in certain impertinences which I did not feel inclined to notice.
But, as the oil was all gone, and no mistake; and, as the prospect of sitting in darkness was not, by any means, an agreeable one--the only remedy was to order another gallon.
Something was wrong; that was clear.

The oil had never been burned.
That evening, myself and husband talked over the matter, and both of us came to the conclusion, that it would never do.

The evil must be remedied.