admitted that he expected to become a great
man, and, though he had not quite decided
upon the nature of his career, -- saving, of
course, the makeshift of journalism, -- it
was not unlikely that he would elect to be a
novelist like -- well, probably like Thackeray.

Hope, always a charming creature, put on
her most alluring smiles for Tig, and he
made her his mistress, and feasted on the
light of her eyes. Moreover, he was chap-
eroned, so to speak, by Nora Finnegan, who
listened to every line Tig wrote, and made a
mighty applause, and filled him up with good
Irish stew, many colored as the coat of Joseph,
and pungent with the inimitable perfume of
"the rose of the cellar." Nora Finnegan
understood the onion, and used it lovingly.
She perceived the difference between the use
and abuse of this pleasant and obvious friend
of hungry man, and employed it with enthu-
siasm, but discretion. Thus it came about
that whoever ate of her dinners, found the
meals of other cooks strangely lacking in
savor, and remembered with regret the soups
and stews, the broiled steaks, and stuffed
chickens of the woman who appreciated the
onion.

When Nora Finnegan came home with a