"O, no!" exclaimed Mrs. Down. "Don't ask me; I really can't do it."

No wonder she was afraid to trust herself to the cab, which looked frail beside her, and to which was attached an anatomical horse, with weak-looking knees, and not enough of a tail to brush even a fly off

with.

A cab some of my readers may never have seen one is at best but a tiltish thing, having two wheels and one seat, into which a couple of medium-sized persons can be squeezed without injury. A couple thus packed away would put you in mind of herrings in a box.

The idea of Mrs. Down crowding into the one before her was ridiculous in the extreme. Why, standing on the sidewalk, she actually towered above it. The cabman, however, did not see the joke.

"Come 'long, ef yer a-comin',” he said; gruffly; "I can't stand a-chaffin' here all day."

"I'm sure I would if I dared. Mercy

me! I wouldn't jam myself through that door for a farm."

The driver slammed the door to, and went off muttering something, the last word of which was "grass."

"Madam,” said a courteous voice, "if you will trust yourself to me, I will find you a carriage.”

The owner of the voice was a fine-looking elderly gentleman, who, passing by at the instant of cabby's impudent parting address, had taken in at a glance the bearings of the

case.

Under his superintendence, Becky and her mother were speedily placed in a comfortable carriage.

"What address shall I give the coachman?" asked the kind gentleman.

"Jeremiah Biddles, No. 65 Westminster Square," said Mrs. Down.

"Jeremiah Biddles," repeated their stranger friend; "he is, or rather was, an intimate friend of mine. Did you know that he died Monday?"

Mrs. Down nodded her head. "I am his sister," she exclaimed, with a burst of tears; and then the carriage drove away.

And now Becky began wondering what her aunt Biddles would say, and how she would look. Some years before, she had come up with uncle Jerry when he paid his sister one of his flying visits, and Becky had a very clear recollection of her grand airs, and her dry, disagreeable voice. Her cousins she had never seen. One was named Caroline, and the other Gertrude. Caroline was her age. Gertrude was a few years younger. Becky wondered what they would

be like.

In the midst of her wondering, the carriage stopped.

"This is 65," said the driver, as he stood ready to help out his passengers. ee Biddles on the door."

Becky and her mother mounted the high flight of marble steps to the heavily-carved vestibule door. Long ends of crape floated from the silver door-knob; and glancing up

at the house, which was of brown stone, six stories high, Mrs. Down hesitatingly pulled the bell.

A servant, in a sort of livery of dark-blue cloth, with plush bands (with a piece of crape tied about his left arm, just above the elbow), answered her ring."

"Is Mrs. Biddles in, sir?" asked Mrs. Down, who wondered who this elegantlydressed person was.

The man stared. "Mrs. Biddles is not at home to any callers," said he, preparing to shut the door.

"But-but- I'm Jerry's- I'm Mr. Biddles's sister."

"I beg your pardon," said the man, changing his manner entirely. "I will inform my mistress that you are here."

He ushered them through a richly-carpeted hall, into a small reception-room, furnished in purple velvet. The purple draperies at the windows were lined with white satin, and were white-fringed and tasselled.

Becky and her mother just lighted upon the edge of a purple velvet tête-à-tête. Their sumptuous surroundings almost took away their breath.

In a few minutes there was a rustle of silk, and a tall, proud-looking woman came into the room. She held a handkerchief in

her hand, deeply bordered with black. This was aunt Biddles, uncle Jerry's wife. Becky thought she looked the same as ever, only paler and haughtier.

"You have come, then," she said. "I hardly expected you;" and she raised her handkerchief to her eyes.

"O, Louisa!" burst out Mrs. Down; "it is too dreadful!" and the frail piece of furniture under her shook with her loud grief.

"You make me nervous," said Mrs. Biddles, taking her face out of her handkerchief.

"O, O, O!" screamed Mrs. Down, getting worse and worse; and in spite of all that Becky could do, she finished off with hysterics.