The Parent's Assistant

Waked as her custom was, before the day,

To do the observance due to sprightly May.

Dryden.

In a retired hamlet on the borders of Wales, between Oswestry and Shrewsbury, it is still the custom to celebrate the 1st of May.

The children of the village, who look forward to this rural festival with joyful eagerness, usually meet on the last day of April to make up their nosegays for the morning and to choose their queen. Their customary place of meeting is at a hawthorn, which stands in a little green nook, open on one side to a shady lane, and separated on the other side by a thick sweet-brier and hawthorn hedge from the garden of an attorney.

This attorney began the world with nothing, but he contrived to scrape together a good deal of money, everybody knew how. He built a new house at the entrance of the village, and had a large, well fenced garden, yet, notwithstanding his fences, he never felt himself secure. Such were his litigious habits, and his suspicious temper, that he was constantly at variance with his simple and peaceable neighbours. Some pig, or dog, or goat, or goose was for ever trespassing. His complaints and his extortions wearied and alarmed the whole hamlet. The paths in his fields were at length unfrequented, his stiles were blocked up with stones or stuffed with brambles and briers, so that not a gosling could creep under, or a giant get over them. Indeed, so careful were even the village children of giving offence to this irritable man of the law, that they would not venture to fly a kite near his fields lest it should entangle in his trees, or fall upon his meadow.

Mr. Case, for this was the name of our attorney, had a son and a daughter, to whose education he had not time to attend, as his whole soul was intent upon accumulating for them a fortune. For several years he suffered his children to run wild in the village; but suddenly, on his being appointed to a considerable agency, he began to think of making his children a little genteel. He sent his son to learn Latin; he hired a maid to wait upon his daughter Barbara; and he strictly forbade her thenceforward to keep company with any of the poor children, who had hitherto been her playfellows. They were not sorry for this prohibition, because she had been their tyrant rather than their companion. She was vexed to observe that her absence was not regretted, and she was mortified to perceive that she could not humble them by any display of airs and finery.

There was one poor girl, amongst her former associates, to whom she had a peculiar dislike,-Susan Price, a sweet tempered, modest, sprightly, industrious lass, who was the pride and delight of the village. Her father rented a small farm, and, unfortunately for him, he lived near Attorney Case.

Barbara used often to sit at her window, watching Susan at work. Sometimes she saw her in the neat garden raking the beds, or weeding the borders; sometimes she was kneeling at her beehive with fresh flowers for her bees; sometimes she was in the poultry yard, scattering corn from her sieve amongst the eager chickens; and in the evening she was often seated in a little honeysuckle arbour, with a clean, light, three-legged deal table before her, upon which she put her plain work.

Susan had been taught to work neatly by her good mother, who was very fond of her, and to whom she was most gratefully attached.

Mrs. Price was an intelligent, active, domestic woman; but her health was not robust. She earned money, however, by taking in plain work; and she was famous for baking excellent bread and breakfast cakes. She was respected in the village, for her conduct as a wife and as a mother, and all were eager to show her attention. At her door the first branch of hawthorn was always placed on May morning, and her Susan was usually Queen of the May.

It was now time to choose the Queen. The setting sun shone full upon the pink blossoms of the hawthorn, when the merry group assembled upon their little green. Barbara was now walking in sullen state in her father's garden. She heard the busy voices in the lane, and she concealed herself behind the high hedge, that she might listen to their conversation.

"Where's Susan?" were the first unwelcome words which she overheard. "Ay, where's Susan?" repeated Philip, stopping short in the middle of a new tune that he was playing on his pipe. "I wish Susan would come! I want her to sing me this same tune over again; I have not it yet."

"And I wish Susan would come, I'm sure," cried a little girl, whose lap was full of primroses. "Susan will give me some thread to tie up my nosegays, and she'll show me where the fresh violets grow; and she has promised to give me a great bunch of her double cowslips to wear to-morrow. I wish she would come."

"Nothing can be done without Susan! She always shows us where the nicest flowers are to be found in the lanes and meadows," said they. "She must make up the garlands; and she shall be Queen of the May!" exclaimed a multitude of little voices.

"But she does not come!" said Philip.

Rose, who was her particular friend, now came forward to assure the impatient assembly, "that she would answer for it Susan would come as soon as she possibly could, and that she probably was detained by business at home."

The little electors thought that all business should give way to theirs, and Rose was dispatched to summon her friend immediately.

"Tell her to make haste," cried Philip. "Attorney Case dined at the Abbey to-day-luckily for us. If he comes home and finds us here, maybe he'll drive us away; for he says this bit of ground belongs to his garden: though that is not true, I'm sure; for Farmer Price knows, and says, it was always open to the road. The Attorney wants to get our playground, so he does. I wish he and his daughter Bab, or Miss Barbara, as she must now be called, were a hundred miles off, out of our way, I know. No later than yesterday she threw down my nine-pins in one of her ill-humours, as she was walking by with her gown all trailing in the dust."

"Yes," cried Mary, the little primrose-girl, "her gown is always trailing. She does not hold it up nicely, like Susan; and with all her fine clothes she never looks half so neat. Mamma says she wishes I may be like Susan, when I grow up to be a great girl, and so do I. I should not like to look conceited as Barbara does, if I was ever so rich."

"Rich or poor," said Philip, "it does not become a girl to look conceited, much less bold, as Barbara did the other day, when she was at her father's door without a hat upon her head, staring at the strange gentleman who stopped hereabout to let his horse drink. I know what he thought of Bab by his looks, and of Susan, too; for Susan was in her garden, bending down a branch of the laburnum-tree, looking at its yellow flowers, which were just come out; and when the gentleman asked her how many miles it was from Shrewsbury, she answered him so modest!-not bashful, like as if she had never seen nobody before-but just right; and then she pulled on her straw hat, which was fallen back with her looking up at the laburnum, and she went her ways home; and the gentleman says to me, after she was gone, 'Pray, who is that neat, modest girl-?' But I wish Susan would come," cried Philip, interrupting himself.

Susan was all this time, as her friend Rose rightly guessed, busy at home. She was detained by her father's returning later than usual. His supper was ready for him nearly an hour before he came home; and Susan swept up the ashes twice, and twice put on wood to make a cheerful blaze for him; but at last, when he did come in, he took no notice of the blaze or of Susan; and when his wife asked him how he did, he made no answer, but stood with his back to the fire, looking very gloomy. Susan put his supper upon the table, and set his own chair for him; but he pushed away the chair and turned from the table, saying-"I shall eat nothing, child! Why have you such a fire to roast me at this time of the year?"

"You said yesterday, father, I thought, that you liked a little cheerful wood fire in the evening; and there was a great shower of hail; your coat is quite wet, we must dry it."

"Take it, then, child," said he, pulling it off-"I shall soon have no coat to dry-and take my hat, too," said he, throwing it upon the ground.

Susan hung up his hat, put his coat over the back of a chair to dry, and then stood anxiously looking at her mother, who was not well; she had this day fatigued herself with baking; and now, alarmed by her husband's moody behaviour, she sat down pale and trembling. He threw himself into a chair, folded his arms, and fixed his eyes upon the fire.

Susan was the first who ventured to break silence. Happy the father who has such a daughter as Susan!-her unaltered sweetness of temper, and her playful, affectionate caresses, at last somewhat dissipated her father's melancholy.

He could not be prevailed upon to eat any of the supper which had been prepared for him; however, with a faint smile, he told Susan that he thought he could eat one of her guinea-hen's eggs. She thanked him, and with that nimble alacrity which marks the desire to please, she ran to her neat chicken-yard; but, alas! her guinea-hen was not there-it had strayed into the attorney's garden. She saw it through the paling, and timidly opening the little gate, she asked Miss Barbara, who was walking slowly by, to let her come in and take her guinea-hen. Barbara, who was at this instant reflecting, with no agreeable feelings, upon the conversation of the village children, to which she had recently listened, started when she heard Susan's voice, and with a proud, ill-humoured look and voice, refused her request.

"Shut the gate," said Barbara, "you have no business in our garden; and as for your hen, I shall keep it; it is always flying in here, and plaguing us, and my father says it is a trespasser; and he told me I might catch it and keep it the next time it got in, and it is in now." Then Barbara called to her maid, Betty, and bid her catch the mischievous hen.

"Oh, my guinea-hen! my pretty guinea-hen!" cried Susan, as they hunted the frightened, screaming creature from corner to corner.

"Here we have got it!" said Betty, holding it fast by the legs.

"Now pay damages, Queen Susan, or good-bye to your pretty guinea-hen," said Barbara, in an insulting tone.

"Damages! what damages?" said Susan; "tell me what I must pay."

"A shilling," said Barbara.

"Oh, if sixpence would do!" said Susan; "I have but sixpence of my own in the world, and here it is."

"It won't do," said Barbara, turning her back.

"Nay, but hear me," cried Susan; "let me at least come in to look for its eggs. I only want one for my father's supper; you shall have all the rest."

"What's your father, or his supper to us? is he so nice that he can eat none but guinea-hen's eggs?" said Barbara. "If you want your hen and your eggs, pay for them, and you'll have them."

"I have but sixpence, and you say that won't do," said Susan with a sigh, as she looked at her favourite, which was in the maid's grasping hands, struggling and screaming in vain.

Susan retired disconsolate. At the door of her father's cottage she saw her friend Rose, who was just come to summon her to the hawthorn bush.

"They are all at the hawthorn, and I am come for you. We can do nothing without you, dear Susan," cried Rose, running to meet her, at the moment she saw her. "You are chosen Queen of the May-come, make haste. But what is the matter? why do you look so sad?"

"Ah!" said Susan, "don't wait for me; I can't come to you, but," added she, pointing to the tuft of double cowslips in the garden, "gather those for poor little Mary; I promised them to her, and tell her the violets are under a hedge just opposite the turnstile, on the right as we go to church. Good-bye! never mind me; I can't come-I can't stay, for my father wants me."

"But don't turn away your face; I won't keep you a moment; only tell me what's the matter," said her friend, following her into the cottage.

"Oh, nothing, not much," said Susan; "only that I wanted the egg in a great hurry for father, it would not have vexed me-to be sure I should have clipped my guinea-hen's wings, and then she could not have flown over the hedge; but let us think no more about it, now," added she, twinkling away a tear.

When Rose, however, learnt that her friend's guinea-hen was detained prisoner by the attorney's daughter, she exclaimed, with all the honest warmth of indignation, and instantly ran back to tell the story to her companions.

"Barbara! ay; like father, like daughter," cried Farmer Price, starting from the thoughtful attitude in which he had been fixed, and drawing his chair closer to his wife.

"You see something is amiss with me, wife-I'll tell you what it is." As he lowered his voice, Susan, who was not sure that he wished she should hear what he was going to say, retired from behind his chair. "Susan, don't go; sit you down here, my sweet Susan," said he, making room for her upon his chair; "I believe I was a little cross when I came in first tonight; but I had something to vex me, as you shall hear.

"About a fortnight ago, you know, wife," continued he, "there was a balloting in our town for the militia; now at that time I wanted but ten days of forty years of age; and the attorney told me I was a fool for not calling myself plump forty. But the truth is the truth, and it is what I think fittest to be spoken at all times come what will of it. So I was drawn for a militiaman; but when I thought how loth you and I would be to part, I was main glad to hear that I could get off by paying eight or nine guineas for a substitute-only I had not the nine guineas-for, you know, we had bad luck with our sheep this year, and they died away one after another-but that was no excuse, so I went to Attorney Case, and, with a power of difficulty, I got him to lend me the money; for which, to be sure, I gave him something, and left my lease of our farm with him, as he insisted upon it, by way of security for the loan. Attorney Case is too many for me. He has found what he calls a flaw in my lease; and the lease, he tells me, is not worth a farthing, and that he can turn us all out of our farm to-morrow if he pleases; and sure enough he will please, for I have thwarted him this day, and he swears he'll be revenged of me. Indeed, he has begun with me badly enough already. I'm not come to the worst part of my story yet-"

Here Farmer Price made a dead stop; and his wife and Susan looked up in his face, breathless with anxiety.

"It must come out," said he, with a short sigh; "I must leave you in three days, wife."

"Must you?" said his wife, in a faint, resigned voice. "Susan, love, open the window." Susan ran to open the window, and then returned to support her mother's head. When she came a little to herself she sat up, begged that her husband would go on, and that nothing might be concealed from her. Her husband had no wish indeed to conceal anything from a wife he loved so well; but, firm as he was, and steady to his maxim, that the truth was the thing the fittest to be spoken at all times, his voice faltered, and it was with great difficulty that he brought himself to speak the whole truth at this moment.

The fact was this. Case met Farmer Price as he was coming home, whistling, from a new ploughed field. The attorney had just dined at The Abbey. The Abbey was the family seat of an opulent baronet in the neighbourhood, to whom Mr. Case had been agent. The baronet died suddenly, and his estate and title devolved to a younger brother, who was now just arrived in the country, and to whom Mr. Case was eager to pay his court, in hopes of obtaining his favour. Of the agency he flattered himself that he was pretty secure; and he thought that he might assume the tone of command towards the tenants, especially towards one who was some guineas in debt, and in whose lease there was a flaw.

Accosting the farmer in a haughty manner, the attorney began with, "So, Farmer Price, a word with you, if you please. Walk on here, man, beside my horse, and you'll hear me. You have changed your opinion, I hope, about that bit of land-that corner at the end of my garden?"

"As how, Mr. Case?" said the farmer.

"As how, man! Why, you said something about its not belonging to me, when you heard me talk of inclosing it the other day."

"So I did," said Price, "and so I do."

Provoked and astonished at the firm tone in which these words were pronounced, the attorney was upon the point of swearing that he would have his revenge; but, as his passions were habitually attentive to the letter of the law, he refrained from any hasty expression, which might, he was aware, in a court of justice, be hereafter brought against him.

"My good friend, Mr. Price," said he, in a soft voice, and pale with suppressed rage. He forced a smile. "I'm under the necessity of calling in the money I lent you some time ago, and you will please to take notice, that it must be paid to-morrow morning. I wish you a good evening. You have the money ready for me, I daresay."

"No," said the farmer, "not a guinea of it; but John Simpson, who was my substitute, has not left our village yet. I'll get the money back from him, and go myself, if so be it must be so, into the militia-so I will."

The attorney did not expect such a determination, and he represented, in a friendly, hypocritical tone to Price, that he had no wish to drive him to such an extremity; that it would be the height of folly in him to run his head against a wall for no purpose. "You don't mean to take the corner into your own garden, do you, Price?" said he.

"I?" said the farmer, "God forbid! it's none of mine, I never take what does not belong to me."

"True, right, very proper, of course," said Mr. Case; "but then you have no interest in life in the land in question?"

"None."

"Then why so stiff about it, Price? All I want of you to say-"

"To say that black is white, which I won't do, Mr. Case. The ground is a thing not worth talking of; but it's neither yours nor mine. In my memory, since the new lane was made, it has always been open to the parish; and no man shall inclose it with my good-will. Truth is truth, and must be spoken; justice is justice, and should be done, Mr. Attorney."

"And law is law, Mr. Farmer, and shall have its course, to your cost," cried the attorney, exasperated by the dauntless spirit of this village Hampden.

Here they parted. The glow of enthusiasm, the pride of virtue, which made our hero brave, could not render him insensible. As he drew nearer home, many melancholy thoughts pressed upon his heart. He passed the door of his own cottage with resolute steps, however, and went through the village in search of the man who had engaged to be his substitute. He found him, told him how the matter stood; and luckily the man, who had not yet spent the money, was willing to return it; as there were many others drawn for the militia, who, he observed, would be glad to give him the same price, or more, for his services.

The moment Price got the money, he hastened to Mr. Case's house, walked straight forward into his room, and laying the money down upon his desk, "There, Mr. Attorney, are your nine guineas; count them; now I have done with you."

"Not yet," said the attorney, jingling the money triumphantly in his hand. "We'll give you a taste of the law, my good sir, or I'm mistaken. You forgot the flaw in your lease, which I have safe in this desk."

"Ah, my lease," said the farmer, who had almost forgot to ask for it till he was thus put in mind of it by the attorney's imprudent threat. "Give me my lease, Mr. Case. I've paid my money; you have no right to keep the lease any longer, whether it is a bad one or a good one."

"Pardon me," said the attorney, locking his desk, and putting the key into his pocket, "possession, my honest friend," cried he, striking his hand upon the desk, "is nine points of the law. Good night to you. I cannot in conscience return a lease to a tenant in which I know there is a capital flaw. It is my duty to show it to my employer; or, in other words, to your new landlord, whose agent I have good reasons to expect I shall be; you will live to repent your obstinacy, Mr. Price. Your servant, sir."

Price retired with melancholy feelings, but not intimidated. Many a man returns home with a gloomy countenance, who has not quite so much cause for vexation.

When Susan heard her father's story, she quite forgot her guinea-hen, and her whole soul was intent upon her poor mother, who, notwithstanding her utmost exertion, could not support herself under this sudden stroke of misfortune.

In the middle of the night Susan was called up; her mother's fever ran high for some hours; but towards morning it abated, and she fell into a soft sleep with Susan's hand locked fast in hers.

Susan sat motionless, and breathed softly, lest she should disturb her. The rushlight, which stood beside the bed, was now burnt low; the long shadow of the tall wicker chair flitted, faded, appeared, and vanished, as the flame rose and sunk in the socket. Susan was afraid that the disagreeable smell might waken her mother; and, gently disengaging her hand, she went on tiptoe to extinguish the candle. All was silent: the grey light of the morning was now spreading over every object; the sun rose slowly, and Susan stood at the lattice window, looking through the small leaded, cross-barred panes at the splendid spectacle. A few birds began to chirp; but, as Susan was listening to them, her mother started in her sleep, and spoke unintelligibly. Susan hung up a white apron before the window to keep out the light, and just then she heard the sound of music at a distance in the village. As it approached nearer, she knew that it was Philip playing upon his pipe and tabor. She distinguished the merry voices of her companions "carolling in honour of the May," and soon she saw them coming towards her father's cottage, with branches and garlands in their hands. She opened quick, but gently, the latch of the door, and ran out to meet them.

"Here she is!-here's Susan!" they exclaimed, joyfully. "Here's the Queen of the May." "And here's her crown!" cried Rose, pressing forward; but Susan put her finger upon her lips, and pointed to her mother's window. Philip's pipe stopped instantly.

"Thank you," said Susan, "my mother is ill; I can't leave her, you know." Then gently putting aside the crown, her companions bid her say who should wear it for her.

"Will you, dear Rose?" said she, placing the garland upon her friend's head. "It's a charming May morning," added she, with a smile; "good-bye. We sha'n't hear your voices or the pipe when you have turned the corner into the village; so you need only stop till then, Philip."

"I shall stop for all day," said Philip: "I've no mind to play any more."

"Good-bye, poor Susan. It is a pity you can't come with us," said all the children; and little Mary ran after Susan to the cottage door.

"I forgot to thank you," said she, "for the double cowslips; look how pretty they are, and smell how sweet the violets are in my bosom, and kiss me quick, for I shall be left behind." Susan kissed the little breathless girl, and returned softly to the side of her mother's bed.

"How grateful that child is to me, for a cowslip only! How can I be grateful enough to such a mother as this?" said Susan to herself, as she bent over her sleeping mother's pale countenance.

Her mother's unfinished knitting lay upon a table near the bed, and Susan sat down in her wicker arm-chair, and went on with the row, in the middle of which her hand stopped the preceding evening. "She taught me to knit, she taught me everything that I know," thought Susan, "and the best of all, she taught me to love her, to wish to be like her."

Her mother, when she awakened, felt much refreshed by her tranquil sleep, and observing that it was a delightful morning, said, "that she had been dreaming she heard music; but that the drum frightened her, because she thought it was the signal for her husband to be carried away by a whole regiment of soldiers, who had pointed their bayonets at him. But that was but a dream, Susan; I awoke, and knew it was a dream, and I then fell asleep, and have slept soundly ever since."

How painful it is to awake to the remembrance of misfortune. Gradually as this poor woman collected her scattered thoughts, she recalled the circumstances of the preceding evening. She was too certain that she had heard from her husband's own lips the words, "I must leave you in three days"; and she wished that she could sleep again, and think it all a dream.

"But he'll want, he'll want a hundred things," said she, starting up. "I must get his linen ready for him. I'm afraid it's very late. Susan, why did you let me lie so long?"

"Everything shall be ready, dear mother; only don't hurry yourself," said Susan. And indeed her mother was ill able to bear any hurry, or to do any work this day. Susan's affectionate, dexterous, sensible activity was never more wanted, or more effectual. She understood so readily, she obeyed so exactly; and when she was left to her own discretion, judged so prudently, that her mother had little trouble and no anxiety in directing her. She said that Susan never did too little, or too much.

Susan was mending her father's linen, when Rose tapped softly at the window, and beckoned to her to come out. She went out. "How does your mother do, in the first place?" said Rose.

"Better, thank you."

"That's well, and I have a little bit of good news for you besides-here," said she, pulling out a glove, in which there was money, "we'll get the guinea-hen back again-we have all agreed about it. This is the money that has been given to us in the village this May morning. At every door they gave silver. See how generous they have been-twelve shillings, I assure you. Now we are a match for Miss Barbara. You won't like to leave home; I'll go to Barbara, and you shall see your guinea-hen in ten minutes."

Rose hurried away, pleased with her commission, and to accomplish her business. Miss Barbara's maid Betty was the first person that was visible at the attorney's house. Rose insisted upon seeing Miss Barbara herself, and she was shown into a parlour to the young lady, who was reading a dirty novel, which she put under a heap of law papers as they entered.

"Dear, how you startled me! Is it only you?" said she to her maid; but as soon as she saw Rose behind the maid, she put on a scornful air. "Could not ye say I was not at home, Betty? Well, my good girl, what brings you here? Something to borrow or beg, I suppose."

May every ambassador-every ambassador in as good a cause-answer with as much dignity and moderation as Rose replied to Barbara upon the present occasion. She assured her, that the person from whom she came did not send her either to beg or borrow; that she was able to pay the full value of that for which she came to ask; and, producing her well filled purse, "I believe that this is a very good shilling," said she. "If you don't like it, I will change it, and now you will be so good as to give me Susan's guinea-hen. It is in her name I ask for it."

"No matter in whose name you ask for it," replied Barbara, "you will not have it. Take up your shilling, if you please. I would have taken a shilling yesterday, if it had been paid at the time properly; but I told Susan, that if it was not paid then, I should keep the hen, and so I shall, I promise her. You may go back, and tell her so."

The attorney's daughter had, whilst Rose opened her negotiation, measured the depth of her purse with a keen eye; and her penetration discovered that it contained at least ten shillings. With proper management she had some hopes that the guinea-hen might be made to bring in at least half the money.

Rose, who was of a warm temper, not quite so fit a match as she had thought herself for the wily Barbara, incautiously exclaimed, "Whatever it costs us, we are determined to have Susan's favourite hen; so, if one shilling won't do, take two; and if two won't do, why, take three."

The shillings sounded provoking upon the table, as she threw them down one after another, and Barbara coolly replied, "Three won't do."

"Have you no conscience, Miss Barbara? Then take four." Barbara shook her head. A fifth shilling was instantly proffered; but Bab, who now saw plainly that she had the game in her own hands, preserved a cold, cruel silence. Rose went on rapidly, bidding shilling after shilling, till she had completely emptied her purse. The twelve shillings were spread upon the table. Barbara's avarice was moved, she consented for this ransom to liberate her prisoner.

Rose pushed the money towards her; but just then, recollecting that she was acting for others more than for herself, and doubting whether she had full powers to conclude such an extravagant bargain, she gathered up the public treasure, and with newly-recovered prudence observed that she must go back to consult her friends. Her generous little friends were amazed at Barbara's meanness, but with one accord declared that they were most willing, for their parts, to give up every farthing of the money. They all went to Susan in a body, and told her so. "There's our purse," said they; "do what you please with it." They would not wait for one word of thanks, but ran away, leaving only Rose with her to settle the treaty for the guinea-hen.

There is a certain manner of accepting a favour, which shows true generosity of mind. Many know how to give, but few know how to accept a gift properly. Susan was touched, but not astonished, by the kindness of her young friends, and she received the purse with as much simplicity as she would have given it.

"Well," said Rose, "shall I go back for the guinea-hen?"

"The guinea-hen!" said Susan, starting from a reverie into which she had fallen, as she contemplated the purse. "Certainly I do long to see my pretty guinea-hen once more; but I was not thinking of her just then-I was thinking of my father."

Now Susan had heard her mother often, in the course of this day, wish that she had but money enough in the world to pay John Simpson for going to serve in the militia instead of her husband. "This, to be sure, will go but a little way," thought Susan; "but still it may be of some use to my father." She told her mind to Rose, and concluded by saying, decidedly, that "if the money was given to her to dispose of as she pleased, she would give it to her father."

"It is all yours, my dear, good Susan," cried Rose, with a look of warm approbation. "This is so like you-but I'm sorry that Miss Bab must keep your guinea-hen. I would not be her for all the guinea-hens, or guineas either, in the whole world. Why, I'll answer for it, the guinea-hen won't make her happy, and you'll be happy even without; because you are good. Let me come and help you to-morrow," continued she, looking at Susan's work, "if you have any more mending work to do-I never liked work till I worked with you. I won't forget my thimble or my scissors," added she, laughing-"though I used to forget them when I was a giddy girl. I assure you I am a great hand at my needle, now-try me."

Susan assured her friend that she did not doubt the powers of her needle, and that she would most willingly accept of her services, but that unluckily she had finished all the needle work immediately wanted.

"But do you know," said she, "I shall have a great deal of business to-morrow; but I won't tell you what it is that I have to do, for I am afraid I shall not succeed; but if I do succeed, I'll come and tell you directly, because you will be so glad of it."

Susan, who had always been attentive to what her mother taught her, and who had often assisted her when she was baking bread and cakes for the family at the Abbey, had now formed the courageous, but not presumptuous idea, that she could herself undertake to bake a batch of bread. One of the servants from the Abbey had been sent all round the village in the morning in search of bread, and had not been able to procure any that was tolerable. Mrs. Price's last baking failed for want of good barm. She was not now strong enough to attempt another herself; and when the brewer's boy came with eagerness to tell her that he had some fine fresh yeast, she thanked him, but sighed, and said it would be of no use to her. Accordingly she went to work with much prudent care, and when her bread the next morning came out of the oven, it was excellent; at least her mother said so, and she was a good judge. It was sent to the Abbey; and as the family there had not tasted any good bread since their arrival in the country, they also were earnest and warm in its praise. Inquiries were made from the housekeeper, and they heard, with some surprise, that this excellent bread was made by a young girl only twelve years old.

The housekeeper, who had known Susan from a child, was pleased to have an opportunity in speaking in her favour. "She is the most industrious little creature, ma'am, in the world," said she to her mistress. "Little I can't so well call her now, since she's grown tall and slender to look at; and glad I am she is grown up likely to look at; for handsome is that handsome does; she thinks no more of her being handsome than I do myself; yet she has as proper a respect for herself, ma'am, as you have; and I always see her neat, and with her mother, ma'am, or fit people, as a girl should be. As for her mother, she dotes upon her, as well she may; for I should myself if I had half such a daughter; and then she has two little brothers; and she's as good to them, and, my boy Philip says, taught 'em to read more than the school-mistress, all with tenderness and good nature; but, I beg your pardon, ma'am, I cannot stop myself when I once begin to talk of Susan."

"You have really said enough to excite my curiosity," said her mistress; "pray send for her immediately; we can see her before we go out to walk."

The benevolent housekeeper despatched her boy Philip for Susan, who never happened to be in such an untidy state as to be unable to obey a summons without a long preparation. She had, it is true, been very busy; but orderly people can be busy and neat at the same time. She put on her usual straw hat, and accompanied Rose's mother, who was going with a basket of cleared muslin to the Abbey.

The modest simplicity of Susan's appearance and the artless propriety of the answers she gave to all the questions that were asked her, pleased the ladies at the Abbey, who were good judges of character and manners.

Sir Arthur Somers had two sisters, sensible, benevolent women. They were not of that race of fine ladies who are miserable the moment they come to the country; nor yet were they of that bustling sort, who quack and direct all their poor neighbours, for the mere love of managing, or the want of something to do. They were judiciously generous; and whilst they wished to diffuse happiness, they were not peremptory in requiring that people should be happy precisely their own way. With these dispositions, and with a well informed brother, who, though he never wished to direct, was always willing to assist in their efforts to do good, there were reasonable hopes that these ladies would be a blessing to the poor villagers amongst whom they were now settled.

As soon as Miss Somers had spoken to Susan, she inquired for her brother; but Sir Arthur was in his study, and a gentleman was with him on business.

Susan was desirous of returning to her mother, and the ladies therefore would not detain her. Miss Somers told her, with a smile, when she took leave, that she would call upon her in the evening at six o'clock.

It was impossible that such a grand event as Susan's visit to the Abbey could long remain unknown to Barbara Case and her gossiping maid. They watched eagerly for the moment of her return, that they might satisfy their curiosity. "There she is, I declare, just come into her garden," cried Bab; "I'll run in and get it all out of her in a minute."

Bab could descend, without shame, whenever it suited her purposes, from the height of insolent pride to the lowest meanness of fawning familiarity.

Susan was gathering some marigolds and some parsley for her mother's broth.

"So, Susan," said Bab, who came close up to her before she perceived it, "how goes the world with you to-day?"

"My mother is rather better to-day, she says, ma'am-thank you," replies Susan, coldly but civilly.

"Ma'am! dear, how polite we are grown of a sudden!" cried Bab, winking at her maid. "One may see you've been in good company this morning-hey, Susan? Come, let's hear about it."

"Did you see the ladies themselves, or was it only the housekeeper sent for you?" said the maid.

"What room did you go into?" continued Bab. "Did you see Miss Somers, or Sir Arthur?"

"Miss Somers."

"La! she saw Miss Somers! Betty, I must hear about it. Can't you stop gathering those things for a minute, and chat a bit with us, Susan?"

"I can't stay, indeed, Miss Barbara; for my mother's broth is just wanted, and I'm in a hurry." Susan ran home.

"Lord, her head is full of broth now," said Bab to her maid; "and she has not a word for herself, though she has been abroad. My papa may well call her Simple Susan; for simple she is, and simple she will be, all the world over. For my part, I think she's little better than a downright simpleton. But, however, simple or not, I'll get what I want out of her. She'll be able to speak, maybe, when she has settled the grand matter of the broth. I'll step in and ask to see her mother, that will put her in a good humour in a trice."

Barbara followed Susan into the cottage, and found her occupied with the grand affair of the broth. "Is it ready?" said Bab, peeping into the pot that was over the fire. "Dear, how savoury it smells! I'll wait till you go in with it to your mother; for I must ask her how she does myself."

"Will you please to sit down then, miss," said Simple Susan, with a smile; for at this instant she forgot the guinea-hen; "I have but just put the parsley into the broth; but it soon will be ready."

During this interval Bab employed herself, much to her own satisfaction, in cross-questioning Susan. She was rather provoked indeed that she could not learn exactly how each of the ladies was dressed, and what there was to be for dinner at the Abbey; and she was curious beyond measure to find out what Miss Somers meant, by saying that she would call at Mr. Price's cottage at six o'clock in the evening. "What do you think she could mean?"

"I thought she meant what she said," replied Susan, "that she would come here at six o'clock."

"Ay, that's as plain as a pike-staff," said Barbara; "but what else did she mean, think you? People, you know, don't always mean exactly, downright, neither more nor less than what they say."

"Not always," said Susan, with an arch smile, which convinced Barbara that she was not quite a simpleton.

"Not Always," repeated Barbara colouring,-"oh, then I suppose you have some guess at what Miss Somers meant."

"No," said Susan, "I was not thinking about Miss Somers, when I said not always."

"How nice that broth does look," resumed Barbara, after a pause.

Susan had now poured the broth into a basin, and as she strewed over it the bright orange marigolds, it looked very tempting. She tasted it, and added now a little salt, and now a little more, till she thought it was just to her mother's taste.

"Oh! I must taste it," said Bab, taking the basin up greedily.

"Won't you take a spoon?" said Susan, trembling at the large mouthfuls which Barbara sucked up with a terrible noise.

"Take a spoonful, indeed!" exclaimed Barbara, setting down the basin in high anger. "The next time I taste your broth you shall affront me, if you dare! The next time I set my foot in this house, you shall be as saucy to me as you please." And she flounced out of the house, repeating "Take a spoon, pig, was what you meant to say."

Susan stood in amazement at the beginning of this speech; but the concluding words explained to her the mystery.

Some years before this time, when Susan was a very little girl, and could scarcely speak plain, as she was eating a basin of bread and milk for her supper at the cottage door, a great pig came up, and put his nose into the basin. Susan was willing that the pig should have some share of the bread and milk; but as she ate with a spoon and he with his large mouth, she presently discovered that he was likely to have more than his share; and in a simple tone of expostulation she said to him, "Take a poon, pig." [77] The saying become proverbial in the village. Susan's little companions repeated it, and applied it upon many occasions, whenever anyone claimed more than his share of anything good. Barbara, who was then not Miss Barbara, but plain Bab, and who had played with all the poor children in the neighbourhood, was often reproved in her unjust methods of division by Susan's proverb. Susan, as she grew up, forgot the childish saying; but the remembrance of it rankled in Barbara's mind, and it was to this that she suspected Susan had alluded, when she recommended a spoon to her, whilst she was swallowing the basin of broth.

"La, miss," said Barbara's maid, when she found her mistress in a passion upon her return from Susan's, "I only wondered you did her the honour to set your foot within her doors. What need have you to trouble her for news about the Abbey folks, when your own papa has been there all the morning, and is just come in, and can tell you everything?"

Barbara did not know that her father meant to go to the Abbey that morning, for Attorney Case was mysterious even to his own family about his morning rides. He never chose to be asked where he was going, or where he had been; and this made his servants more than commonly inquisitive to trace him.

Barbara, against whose apparent childishness and real cunning he was not sufficiently on his guard, had often the art of drawing him into conversation about his visits. She ran into her father's parlour; but she knew, the moment she saw his face, that it was no time to ask questions; his pen was across his mouth, and his brown wig pushed oblique upon his contracted forehead. The wig was always pushed crooked whenever he was in a brown or rather, a black study. Barbara, who did not, like Susan, bear with her father's testy humour from affection and gentleness of disposition, but who always humoured him from artifice, tried all her skill to fathom his thoughts, and when she found that it would not do, she went to tell her maid so, and to complain that her father was so cross there was no bearing him.

It is true that Attorney Case was not in the happiest mood possible; for he was by no means satisfied with his morning's work at the Abbey. Sir Arthur Somers, the new man, did not suit him, and he began to be rather apprehensive that he should not suit Sir Arthur. He had sound reasons for his doubts.

Sir Arthur Somers was an excellent lawyer, and a perfectly honest man. This seemed to our attorney a contradiction in terms; in the course of his practice the case had not occurred; and he had no precedents ready to direct his proceedings. Sir Arthur was also a man of wit and eloquence, yet of plain dealing and humanity. The attorney could not persuade himself to believe that his benevolence was anything but enlightened cunning, and his plain dealing he one minute dreaded as the masterpiece of art, and the next despised as the characteristic of folly. In short, he had not yet decided whether he was an honest man or a knave. He had settled accounts with him for his late agency, and had talked about sundry matters of business. He constantly perceived, however, that he could not impose upon Sir Arthur; but the idea that he could know all the mazes of the law, and yet prefer the straight road, was incomprehensible.

Mr. Case, having paid Sir Arthur some compliments on his great legal abilities, and his high reputation at the bar, he coolly replied, "I have left the bar." The attorney looked in unfeigned astonishment, that a man who was actually making 3,000 pounds per annum at the bar should leave it.

"I am come," said Sir Arthur, "to enjoy that kind of domestic life in the country which I prefer to all others, and amongst people whose happiness I hope to increase." At this speech the attorney changed his ground, flattering himself that he should find his man averse to business, and ignorant of country affairs. He talked of the value of land, and of new leases.

Sir Arthur wished to enlarge his domain, and to make a ride round it. A map of it was lying upon the table, and Farmer Price's garden came exactly across the new road for the ride. Sir Arthur looked disappointed; and the keen attorney seized the moment to inform him that "Price's whole land was at his disposal."

"At my disposal! how so?" cried Sir Arthur, eagerly; "it will not be out of lease, I believe, these ten years. I'll look into the rent roll again; perhaps I am mistaken."

"You are mistaken, my good sir, and you are not mistaken," said Mr. Case, with a shrewd smile. "In one sense, the land will not be out of lease these ten years, and in another it is out of lease at this present time. To come to the point at once, the lease is, ab origine, null and void. I have detected a capital flaw in the body of it. I pledge my credit upon it, sir, it can't stand a single term in law or equity."

The attorney observed, that at these words Sir Arthur's eye was fixed with a look of earnest attention. "Now I have him," said the cunning tempter to himself.

"Neither in law nor equity," repeated Sir Arthur, with apparent incredulity. "Are you sure of that, Mr. Case?"

"Sure! As I told you before, sir, I'd pledge my whole credit upon the thing-I'd stake my existence."

"That's something," said Sir Arthur, as if he was pondering upon the matter.

The attorney went on with all the eagerness of a keen man, who sees a chance at one stroke of winning a rich friend, and of ruining a poor enemy. He explained, with legal volubility and technical amplification, the nature of the mistake in Mr. Price's lease. "It was, sir," said he, "a lease for the life of Peter Price, Susanna his wife, and to the survivor or survivors of them, or for the full time and term of twenty years, to be computed from the first day of May then next ensuing. Now, sir, this, you see, is a lease in reversion, which the late Sir Benjamin Somers had not, by his settlement, a right to make. This is a curious mistake, you see, Sir Arthur; and in filling up those printed leases there's always a good chance of some flaw. I find it perpetually; but I never found a better than this in the whole course of my practice."

Sir Arthur stood in silence.

"My dear sir," said the attorney, taking him by the button, "you have no scruple of stirring in this business?"

"A little," said Sir Arthur.

"Why, then, that can be done away in a moment. Your name shall not appear in it at all. You have nothing to do but to make over the lease to me. I make all safe to you with my bond. Now, being in possession, I come forward in my own proper person. Shall I proceed?"

"No-you have said enough," replied Sir Arthur.

"The case, indeed, lies in a nutshell," said the attorney, who had by this time worked himself up to such a pitch of professional enthusiasm, that, intent upon his vision of a lawsuit, he totally forgot to observe the impression his words made upon Sir Arthur.

"There's only one thing we have forgotten all this time," said Sir Arthur.

"What can that be, sir?"

"That we shall ruin this poor man."

Case was thunderstruck at these words, or rather, by the look which accompanied them. He recollected that he had laid himself open before he was sure of Sir Arthur's real character. He softened, and said he should have had certainly more consideration in the case of any but a litigious, pig-headed fellow, as he knew Price to be.

"If he be litigious," said Sir Arthur, "I shall certainly be glad to get him fairly out of the parish as soon as possible. When you go home, you will be so good, sir, as to send me his lease, that I may satisfy myself before we stir in this business."

The attorney, brightening up, prepared to take leave; but he could not persuade himself to take his departure without making one push at Sir Arthur about the agency.

"I will not trouble you, Sir Arthur, with this lease of Price's," said Case; "I'll leave it with your agent. Whom shall I apply to?"

"To myself, sir, if you please," replied Sir Arthur.

The courtiers of Louis the Fourteenth could not have looked more astounded than our attorney, when they received from their monarch a similar answer. It was this unexpected reply of Sir Arthur's which had deranged the temper of Mr. Case, and caused his wig to stand so crooked upon his forehead, and which had rendered him impenetrably silent to his inquisitive daughter Barbara.

After having walked up and down his room, conversing with himself, for some time, the attorney concluded that the agency must be given to somebody when Sir Arthur should have to attend his duty in Parliament; that the agency, even for the winter season, was not a thing to be neglected; and that, if he managed well, he might yet secure it for himself. He had often found that small timely presents worked wonderfully upon his own mind, and he judged of others by himself. The tenants had been in the reluctant but constant practice of making him continual petty offerings; and he resolved to try the same course with Sir Arthur, whose resolution to be his own agent, he thought, argued a close, saving, avaricious disposition. He had heard the housekeeper at the Abbey inquiring, as he passed through the servants, whether there was any lamb to be gotten? She said that Sir Arthur was remarkably fond of lamb, and that she wished she could get a quarter for him. Immediately he sallied into his kitchen, as soon as the idea struck him, and asked a shepherd, who was waiting there, whether he knew of a nice fat lamb to be had anywhere in the neighbourhood.

"I know of one," cried Barbara. "Susan Price has a pet lamb that's as fat as fat could be." The attorney easily caught at these words, and speedily devised a scheme for obtaining Susan's lamb for nothing.

It would be something strange if an attorney of his talents and standing was not an over-match for Simple Susan. He prowled forth in search of his prey. He found Susan packing up her father's little wardrobe; and when she looked up as she knelt, he saw that she had been in tears.

"How is your mother to-day, Susan?" inquired the attorney.

"Worse, sir. My father goes to-morrow."

"That's a pity."

"It can't be helped," said Susan, with a sigh.

"It can't be helped-how do you know that?" said Case.

"Sir, dear sir!" cried she, looking up at him, and a sudden ray of hope beamed in her ingenuous countenance.

"And if you could help it, Susan?" said he. Susan clasped her hands in silence, more expressive than words. "You can help it, Susan." She started up in an ecstasy. "What would you give now to have your father at home for a whole week longer?"

"Anything!-but I have nothing."

"Yes, but you have, a lamb," said the hard-hearted attorney.

"My poor little lamb!" said Susan; "but what can that do?"

"What good can any lamb do? Is not lamb good to eat? Why do you look so pale, girl? Are not sheep killed every day, and don't you eat mutton? Is your lamb better than anybody else's, think you?"

"I don't know," said Susan, "but I love it better."

"More fool you," said he.

"It feeds out of hand, it follows me about; I have always taken care of it; my mother gave it to me."

"Well, say no more about it, then," he cynically observed; "if you love your lamb better than both your father and your mother, keep it, and good morning to you."

"Stay, oh stay!" cried Susan, catching the skirt of his coat with an eager, trembling hand;-"a whole week, did you say? My mother may get better in that time. No, I do not love my lamb half so well." The struggle of her mind ceased, and with a placid countenance and calm voice, "take the lamb," said she.

"Where is it?" said the attorney.

"Grazing in the meadow, by the river side."

"It must be brought up before night-fall for the butcher, remember."

"I shall not forget it," said Susan, steadily.

As soon, however, as her persecutor turned his back and quitted the house, Susan sat down, and hid her face in her hands. She was soon aroused by the sound of her mother's feeble voice, who was calling Susan from the inner room where she lay. Susan went in; but did not undraw the curtain as she stood beside the bed.

"Are you there, love? Undraw the curtain, that I may see you, and tell me;-I thought I heard some strange voice just now talking to my child. Something's amiss, Susan," said her mother, raising herself as well as she was able in the bed, to examine her daughter's countenance.

"Would you think it amiss, then, my dear mother," said Susan, stooping to kiss her-"would you think it amiss, if my father was to stay with us a week longer?"

"Susan! you don't say so?"

"He is, indeed, a whole week;-but how burning hot your hand is still."

"Are you sure he will stay?" inquired her mother. "How do you know? Who told you so? Tell me all quick."

"Attorney Case told me so; he can get him a week's longer leave of absence, and he has promised he will."

"God bless him for it, for ever and ever!" said the poor woman, joining her hands. "May the blessing of heaven be with him!"

Susan closed the curtains, and was silent. She could not say Amen. She was called out of the room at this moment, for a messenger was come from the Abbey for the bread-bills. It was she who always made out the bills, for though she had not a great number of lessons from the writing-master, she had taken so much pains to learn that she could write a very neat, legible hand, and she found this very useful. She was not, to be sure, particularly inclined to draw out a long bill at this instant, but business must be done. She set to work, ruled her lines for the pounds, shillings and pence, made out the bill for the Abbey, and despatched the impatient messenger. She then resolved to make out all the bills for the neighbours, who had many of them taken a few loaves and rolls of her baking. "I had better get all my business finished," said she to herself, "before I go down to the meadow to take leave of my poor lamb."

This was sooner said than done, for she found that she had a great number of bills to write, and the slate on which she had entered the account was not immediately to be found; and when it was found the figures were almost rubbed out. Barbara had sat down upon it. Susan pored over the number of loaves, and the names of the persons who took them; and she wrote and cast up sums, and corrected and re-corrected them, till her head grew quite puzzled.

The table was covered with little square bits of paper, on which she had been writing bills over and over again, when her father came in with a bill in his hand. "How's this, Susan?" said he. "How can ye be so careless, child? What is your head running upon? Here, look at the bill you were sending up to the Abbey? I met the messenger, and luckily asked to see how much it was. Look at it."

Susan looked and blushed; it was written, "Sir Arthur Somers, to John Price, debtor, six dozen lambs, so much." She altered it, and returned it to her father; but he had taken up some of the papers which lay upon the table. "What are all these, child?"

"Some of them are wrong, and I've written them out again," said Susan.

"Some of them! All of them, I think, seem to be wrong, if I can read," said her father, rather angrily, and he pointed out to her sundry strange mistakes. Her head, indeed, had been running upon her poor lamb. She corrected all the mistakes with so much patience, and bore to be blamed with so much good humour, that her father at last said, that it was impossible ever to scold Susan, without being in the wrong at the last.

As soon as all was set right, Price took the bills, and said he would go round to the neighbours, and collect the money himself; for that he should be very proud to have it to say to them, that it was all earned by his own little daughter.

Susan resolved to keep the pleasure of telling him of his week's reprieve till he should come home to sup, as he had promised to do, in her mother's room. She was not sorry to hear him sigh as he passed the knapsack, which she had been packing up for his journey. "How delighted he will be when he hears the good news!" said she, to herself; "but I know he will be a little sorry too for my poor lamb."

As Susan had now settled all her business, she thought she could have time to go down to the meadow by the river side to see her favourite; but just as she had tied on her straw hat the village clock struck four, and this was the hour at which she always went to fetch her little brothers home from a dame-school near the village. She knew that they would be disappointed, if she was later than usual, and she did not like to keep them waiting, because they were very patient, good boys; so she put off the visit to her lamb, and went immediately for her brothers.

Mr. and Mrs. Montague spent the summer of the year 1795 at Clifton with their son Frederick, and their two daughters Sophia and Marianne. They had taken much care of the education of their children; nor were they ever tempted, by any motive of personal convenience or temporary amusement, to hazard the permanent happiness of their pupils.

Sensible of the extreme importance of early impressions, and of the powerful influence of external circumstances in forming the characters and the manners, they were now anxious that the variety of new ideas and new objects which would strike the minds of their children should appear in a just point of view.

"Let children see and judge for themselves," is often inconsiderately said. Where children see only a part they cannot judge of the whole; and from the superficial view which they can have in short visits and desultory conversation, they can form only a false estimate of the objects of human happiness, a false notion of the nature of society, and false opinions of characters.

For the above reasons, Mr. and Mrs. Montague were particularly cautious in the choice of their acquaintances, as they were well aware that whatever passed in conversation before children became part of their education.

When they came to Clifton they wished to have a house entirely to themselves, but, as they came late in the season, almost all the lodging houses were full, and for a few weeks they were obliged to remain in a house where some of the apartments were already occupied.

During the first fortnight they scarcely saw or heard anything of one of the families who lodged on the same floor with them. An elderly quaker, and his sister Bertha, were their silent neighbours. The blooming complexion of the lady had indeed attracted the attention of the children, as they caught a glimpse of her face when she was getting into her carriage to go out upon the Downs. They could scarcely believe that she came to the Wells on account of her health.

Besides her blooming complexion, the delicate white of her garments had struck them with admiration; and they observed that her brother carefully guarded her dress from the wheel of the carriage, as he handed her in. From this circumstance, and from the benevolent countenance of the old gentleman, they concluded that he was very fond of his sister, and that they were certainly very happy, except that they never spoke, and could be seen only for a moment.

Not so the maiden lady who occupied the ground floor. On the stairs, in the passages, at her window, she was continually visible; and she appeared to possess the art of being present in all these places at once. Her voice was eternally to be heard, and it was not particularly melodious. The very first day she met Mrs. Montague's children on the stairs, she stopped to tell Marianne that she was a charming dear, and a charming little dear; to kiss her, to inquire her name, and to inform her that her own name was "Mrs. Theresa Tattle," a circumstance of which there was little danger of their long remaining in ignorance; for, in the course of one morning, at least twenty single and as many double raps at the door were succeeded by vociferations of "Mrs. Theresa Tattle's servant!" "Mrs. Theresa Tattle at home?" "Mrs. Theresa Tattle not at home!"

No person at the Wells was oftener at home and abroad than Mrs. Tattle. She had, as she deemed it, the happiness to have a most extensive acquaintance residing at Clifton. She had for years kept a register of arrivals. She regularly consulted the subscriptions to the circulating libraries, and the lists at the Ball and the Pump-rooms: so that, with a memory unencumbered with literature, and free from all domestic cares, she contrived to retain a most astonishing and correct list of births, deaths and marriages, together with all the anecdotes, amusing, instructive, or scandalous, which are necessary to the conversation of a water drinking place, and essential to the character of a "very pleasant woman."

"A very pleasant woman," Mrs. Tattle was usually called; and, conscious of her accomplishments, she was eager to introduce herself to the acquaintance of her new neighbours; having, with her ordinary expedition, collected from their servants, by means of her own, all that could be known, or rather, all that could be told about them. The name of Montague, at all events, she knew was a good name, and justified in courting the acquaintance. She courted it first by nods, and becks and smiles at Marianne whenever she met her; and Marianne, who was a very little girl, began presently to nod and smile in return, persuaded that a lady who smiled so much, could not be ill-natured. Besides, Mrs. Theresa's parlour door was sometimes left more than half open, to afford a view of a green parrot. Marianne sometimes passed very slowly by this door. One morning it was left quite wide open, when she stopped to say "Pretty Poll"; and immediately Mrs. Tattle begged she would do her the honour to walk in and see "Pretty Poll," at the same time taking the liberty to offer her a piece of iced plum-cake.

The next day Mrs. Theresa Tattle did herself the honour to wait upon Mrs. Montague, "to apologize for the liberty she taken in inviting Mrs. Montague's charming Miss Marianne into her apartment to see Pretty Poll, and for the still greater liberty she had taken in offering her a piece of plum-cake-inconsiderate creature that she was!-which might possibly have disagreed with her, and which certainly were liberties she never should have been induced to take, if she had not been unaccountably bewitched by Miss Marianne's striking though highly flattering resemblance to a young gentleman (an officer) with whom she had danced, now nearly twelve years ago, of the name of Montague, a most respectable young man, and of a most respectable family, with which, in a remote degree, she might presume to say, she herself was someway connected, having the honour to be nearly related to the Joneses of Merionethshire, who were cousins to the Mainwarings of Bedfordshire, who married into the family of the Griffiths, the eldest branch of which, she understood, had the honour to be cousin-german to Mr. Montague; on which account she had been impatient to pay a visit, so likely to be productive of most agreeable consequences, by the acquisition of an acquaintance whose society must do her infinite honour."

Having thus happily accomplished her first visit, there seemed little probability of escaping Mrs. Tattle's further acquaintance. In the course of the first week she only hinted to Mr. Montague that "some people thought his system of education rather odd; that she should be obliged to him if he would, some time or other, when he had nothing else to do, just sit down and make her understand his notions, that she might have something to say to her acquaintance, as she always wished to have when she heard any friend attacked, or any friend's opinions."

Mr. Montague declining to sit down and make this lady understand a system of education only to give her something to say, and showing unaccountable indifference about the attacks with which he was threatened, Mrs. Tattle next addressed herself to Mrs. Montague, prophesying, in a most serious whisper, "that the charming Miss Marianne would shortly and inevitably grow quite crooked, if she were not immediately provided with a back-board, a French dancing-master, and a pair of stocks."

This alarming whisper could not, however, have a permanent effect upon Mrs. Montague's understanding, because three days afterwards Mrs. Theresa, upon the most anxious inspection, entirely mistook the just and natural proportions of the hip and shoulder.

This danger vanishing, Mrs. Tattle presently, with a rueful length of face, and formal preface, "hesitated to assure Mrs. Montague, that she was greatly distressed about her daughter Sophy; that she was convinced her lungs were affected; and that she certainly ought to drink the waters morning and evening; and above all things, must keep one of the patirosa lozenges constantly in her mouth, and directly consult Dr. Cardamum, the best physician in the world, and the person she would send for herself upon her death-bed; because, to her certain knowledge, he had recovered a young lady, a relation of her own, after she had lost one whole globe [222] of her lungs."

The medical opinion of a lady of so much anatomical precision could not have much weight. Neither was this universal adviser more successful in an attempt to introduce a tutor to Frederick, who, she apprehended, must want some one to perfect him in the Latin and Greek, and dead languages, of which, she observed, it would be impertinent for a woman to talk; only she might venture to repeat what she had heard said by good authority, that a competency of the dead tongues could be had nowhere but at a public school, or else from a private tutor who had been abroad (after the advantage of a classical education, finished in one of the universities) with a good family; without which introduction it was idle to think of reaping solid advantages from any continental tour; all which requisites, from personal knowledge, she could aver to be concentrated in the gentleman she had the honour to recommend, as having been tutor to a young nobleman, who had now no further occasion for him, having, unfortunately for himself and his family, been killed in an untimely duel.

All Mrs. Theresa Tattle's suggestions being lost upon these stoical parents, her powers were next tried upon the children, and her success soon became apparent. On Sophy, indeed, she could not make any impression, though she had expended on her some of her finest strokes of flattery. Sophy, though very desirous of the approbation of her friends, was not very desirous of winning the favour of strangers. She was about thirteen-that dangerous age at which ill educated girls, in their anxiety to display their accomplishments, are apt to become dependent for applause upon the praise of every idle visitor; when the habits not being formed, and the attention being suddenly turned to dress and manners, girls are apt to affect and imitate, indiscriminately, everything that they conceive to be agreeable.

Sophy, whose taste had been cultivated at the same time with her powers of reasoning, was not liable to fall into these errors. She found that she could please those whom she wished to please, without affecting to be anything but what she really was; and her friends listened to what she said, though she never repeated the sentiments, or adopted the phrases, which she might easily have copied from the conversation of those who were older or more fashionable than herself.

This word fashionable, Mrs. Theresa Tattle knew, had usually a great effect, even at thirteen; but she had not observed that it had much power upon Sophy; nor were her remarks concerning grace and manners much attended to. Her mother had taught Sophy that it was best to let herself alone, and not to distort either her person or her mind in acquiring grimace, which nothing but the fashion of the moment can support, and which is always detected and despised by people of real good sense and politeness.

"Bless me!" said Mrs. Tattle, to herself, "if I had such a tall daughter, and so unformed, before my eyes from morning to night, it would certainly break my poor heart. Thank heaven, I am not a mother! if I were, Miss Marianne for me!"

Miss Marianne had heard so often from Mrs. Tattle that she was very charming, that she could not help believing it; and from being a very pleasing, unaffected little girl, she in a short time grew so conceited, that she could neither speak, look, nor be silent without imagining that everybody was, or ought to be, looking at her; and when Mrs. Theresa saw that Mrs. Montague looked very grave upon these occasions, she, to repair the ill she had done, would say, after praising Marianne's hair or her eyes, "Oh, but little ladies should never think about their beauty, you know. Nobody loves anybody for being handsome, but for being good." People must think children are very silly, or else they can never have reflected upon the nature of belief in their own minds, if they imagine that children will believe the words that are said to them, by way of moral, when the countenance, manner, and every concomitant circumstance tell them a different tale. Children are excellent physiognomists-they quickly learn the universal language of looks; and what is said of them always makes a greater impression than what is said to them, a truth of which those prudent people surely cannot be aware who comfort themselves, and apologize to parents, by saying, "Oh, but I would not say so and so to the child."

Mrs. Theresa had seldom said to Frederick Montague, "that he had a vast deal of drollery, and was a most incomparable mimic;" but she had said so of him in whispers, which magnified the sound to his imagination, if not to his ear. He was a boy of much vivacity, and had considerable abilities; but his appetite for vulgar praise had not yet been surfeited. Even Mrs. Theresa Tattle's flattery pleased him, and he exerted himself for her entertainment so much that he became quite a buffoon. Instead of observing characters and manners, that he might judge of them, and form his own, he now watched every person he saw, that he might detect some foible, or catch some singularity in their gesture or pronunciation, which he might successfully mimic.

Alarmed by the rapid progress of these evils, Mr. and Mrs. Montague, who, from the first day that they had been honoured with Mrs. Tattle's visit, had begun to look out for new lodgings, were now extremely impatient to decamp. They were not people who, from the weak fear of offending a silly acquaintance, would hazard the happiness of their family. They had heard of a house in the country which was likely to suit them, and they determined to go directly to look at it. As they were to be absent all day, they foresaw that their officious neighbour would probably interfere with their children. They did not choose to exact any promise from them which they might be tempted to break, and therefore they only said at parting, "If Mrs. Theresa Tattle should ask you to come to her, do as you think proper."

Scarcely had Mrs. Montague's carriage got out of hearing when a note was brought, directed to "Frederick Montague, Junior, Esq.," which he immediately opened, and read as follows:-

"Mrs. Theresa Tattle presents her very best compliments to the entertaining Mr. Frederick Montague; she hopes he will have the charity to drink tea with her this evening, and bring his charming sister, Miss Marianne, with him, as Mrs. Theresa will be quite alone with a shocking headache, and is sensible her nerves are affected; and Dr. Cardamum says that (especially in Mrs. T. T.'s case) it is downright death to nervous patients to be alone an instant. She therefore trusts Mr. Frederick will not refuse to come and make her laugh. Mrs. Theresa has taken care to provide a few macaroons for her little favourite, who said she was particularly fond of them the other day. Mrs. Theresa hopes they will all come at six, or before, not forgetting Miss Sophy, if she will condescend to be of the party."

At the first reading of this note, "the entertaining" Mr. Frederick, and the "charming" Miss Marianne laughed heartily, and looked at Sophy, as if they were afraid that she should think it possible they could like such gross flattery; but upon a second perusal, Marianne observed that it certainly was very good-natured of Mrs. Theresa to remember the macaroons; and Frederick allowed that it was wrong to laugh at the poor woman because she had the headache. Then twisting the note in his fingers, he appealed to Sophy:-

"Well, Sophy, leave off drawing for an instant," said Frederick, "and tell us what answer can we send?"

"Can!-we can send what answer we please."

"Yes, I know that," said Frederick. "I would refuse if I could; but we ought not to do anything rude, should we? So I think we might as well go, because we could not refuse, if we would, I say."

"You have made such confusion," replied Sophy, "between 'couldn't' and 'wouldn't' and 'shouldn't,' that I can't understand you; surely they are all different things."

"Different! no," cried Frederick-"could, would, should, might, and ought, are all the same thing in the Latin grammar; all of 'em signs of the potential mood, you know."

Sophy, whose powers of reasoning were not to be confounded, even by quotations from the Latin grammar, looked up soberly from her drawing, and answered "that very likely those words might be signs of the same thing in the Latin grammar, but she believed that they meant perfectly different things in real life."

"That's just as people please," said her sophistical brother. "You know words mean nothing in themselves. If I choose to call my hat my cadwallader, you would understand me just as well, after I had once explained it to you, that by cadwallader I meant this black thing that I put upon my head; cadwallader and hat would then be just the same thing to you."

"Then why have two words for the same thing?" said Sophy; "and what has this to do with 'could' and 'should'? You wanted to prove-"

"I wanted to prove," interrupted Frederick, "that it's not worth while to dispute for two hours about two words. Do keep to the point, Sophy, and don't dispute with me."

"I was not disputing, I was reasoning."

"Well, reasoning or disputing. Women have no business to do either; for, how should they know how to chop logic like men?"

At this contemptuous sarcasm upon her sex, Sophy's colour rose.

"There!" cried Frederick, exulting, "now we shall see a philosopheress in a passion; I'd give sixpence, half-price, for a harlequin entertainment, to see Sophy in a passion. Now, Marianne, look at her brush dabbing so fast in the water!"

Sophy, who could not easily bear to be laughed at, with some little indignation, said, "Brother, I wish-"

"There! there!" cried Frederick, pointing to the colour which rose in her cheeks almost to her temples-"rising! rising! rising! look at the thermometer! blood heat! blood! fever heat! boiling water heat! Marianne."

"Then," said Sophy, smiling, "you should stand a little farther off, both of you. Leave the thermometer to itself a little while. Give it time to cool. It will come down to 'temperate' by the time you look again."

"Oh, brother!" cried Marianne, "she's so good-humoured, don't tease her any more, and don't draw heads upon her paper, and don't stretch her india-rubber, and don't let us dirty any more of her brushes. See! the sides of her tumbler are all manner of colours."

"Oh, I only mixed red, blue, green and yellow, to show you, Marianne, that all colours mixed together make white. But she is temperate now, and I won't plague her; she shall chop logic, if she likes it, though she is a woman."

"But that's not fair, brother," said Marianne, "to say 'woman' in that way. I'm sure Sophy found out how to tie that difficult knot, which papa showed us yesterday, long before you did, though you are a man."

"Not long," said Frederick. "Besides, that was only a conjuring trick."

"It was very ingenious, though," said Marianne; "and papa said so. Besides, she understood the 'Rule of Three,' which was no conjuring trick, better than you did, though she is a woman; and she can reason, too, mamma says."

"Very well, let her reason away," said the provoking wit. "All I have to say is, that she'll never be able to make a pudding."

"Why not, pray, brother?" inquired Sophy, looking up again, very gravely.

"Why, you know papa himself, the other day at dinner, said that the woman who talks Greek and Latin as well as I do, is a fool after all; and that she had better have learned something useful; and Mrs. Tattle said, she'd answer for it she did not know how to make a pudding."

"Well! but I am not talking Greek and Latin, am I?"

"No, but you are drawing, and that's the same thing."

"The same thing! Oh, Frederick!" said little Marianne, laughing.

"You may laugh; but I say it is the same sort of thing. Women who are always drawing and reasoning, never know how to make puddings. Mrs. Theresa Tattle said so, when I showed her Sophy's beautiful drawing yesterday."

"Mrs. Theresa Tattle might say so," replied Sophy, calmly; "but I do not perceive the reason, brother, why drawing should prevent me from learning how to make a pudding."

"Well, I say you'll never learn how to make a good pudding."

"I have learned," continued Sophy, who was mixing her colours, "to mix such and such colours together to make the colour that I want; and why should I not be able to learn to mix flour and butter, and sugar and egg, together, to produce the taste that I want."

"Oh, but mixing will never do, unless you know the quantities, like a cook; and you would never learn the right quantities."

"How did the cook learn them? Cannot I learn them as she did?"

"Yes, but you'd never do it exactly, and mind the spoonfuls right, by the recipe, like a cook."

"Indeed! indeed! but she would," cried Marianne, eagerly: "and a great deal more exactly, for mamma has taught her to weigh and measure things very carefully: and when I was ill she always weighed the bark in nicely, and dropped my drops so carefully: better than the cook. When mamma took me down to see the cook make a cake once, I saw her spoonfuls, and her ounces, and her handfuls: she dashed and splashed without minding exactness or the recipe, or anything. I'm sure Sophy would make a much better pudding, if exactness only were wanting."

"Well, granting that she could make the best pudding in the whole world, what does that signify? I say she never would: so it comes to the same thing."

"Never would! how can you tell that, brother?"

"Why, now look at her, with her books, and her drawings, and all this apparatus. Do you think she would ever jump up, with all her nicety, too, and put by all these things, to go down into the greasy kitchen, and plump up to the elbows in suet, like a cook, for a plum-pudding?"

"I need not plump up to the elbows, brother," said Sophy, smiling: "nor is it necessary that I should be a cook: but, if it were necessary, I hope I should be able to make a pudding."

"Yes, yes," cried Marianne, warmly; "and she would jump up, and put by all her things in a minute if it were necessary, and run down stairs and up again like lightning, or do anything that was ever so disagreeable to her, even about the suet, with all her nicety, brother, I assure you, as she used to do anything, everything for me, when I was ill last winter. Oh, brother, she can do anything; and she could make the best plum-pudding in the whole world, I'm sure, in a minute, if it were necessary."

A knock at the door, from Mrs. Theresa Tattle's servant, recalled Marianne to the business of the day.

"There," said Frederick, "we have sent no answer all this time. It's necessary to think of that in a minute."

The servant came with his mistress' compliments, to let the young ladies and Mr. Frederick know that she was waiting tea for them.

"Waiting! then we must go," said Frederick.

The servant opened the door wider, to let him pass, and Marianne thought she must follow her brother: so they went downstairs together, while Sophy gave her own message to the servant, and quietly stayed at her usual occupations.

Mrs. Tattle was seated at her tea-table, with a large plate of macaroons beside her when Frederick and Marianne entered. She was "delighted" they were come, and "grieved" not to see Miss Sophy along with them. Marianne coloured a little; for though she had precipitately followed her brother, and though he had quieted her conscience for a moment by saying "You know papa and mamma told us to do what we thought best," yet she did not feel quite pleased with herself: and it was not till after Mrs. Theresa had exhausted all her compliments, and half her macaroons, that she could restore her spirits to their usual height.

"Come, Mr. Frederick," said she after tea, "you promised to make me laugh; and nobody can make me laugh so well as yourself."

"Oh, brother," said Marianne, "show Mrs. Theresa Dr. Carbuncle eating his dinner; and I'll be Mrs. Carbuncle."

Marianne. Now, my dear, what shall I help you to?

Frederick. "My dear!" she never calls him my dear, you know, but always Doctor.

Mar. Well then, doctor, what will you eat to-day?

Fred. Eat, madam! eat! nothing! nothing! I don't see anything here I can eat, ma'am.

Mar. Here's eels, sir; let me help you to some eel-stewed eel;-you used to be fond of stewed eel.

Fred. Used, ma'am, used! But I'm sick of stewed eels. You would tire one of anything. Am I to see nothing but eels? And what's this at the bottom?

Mar. Mutton, doctor, roast mutton; if you'll be so good as to cut it.

Fred. Cut it, ma'am! I can't cut it, I say; it's as hard as a deal board. You might as well tell me to cut the table, ma'am. Mutton, indeed! not a bit of fat. Roast mutton, indeed! not a drop of gravy. Mutton, truly! quite a cinder. I'll have none of it. Here, take it away; take it downstairs to the cook. It's a very hard case, Mrs. Carbuncle, that I can never have a bit of anything that I can eat at my own table, Mrs. Carbuncle, since I was married, ma'am, I that am the easiest man in the whole world to please about my dinner. It's really very extraordinary, Mrs. Carbuncle! What have you at that corner there, under the cover?

Mar. Patties, sir; oyster patties.

Fred. Patties, ma'am! kickshaws! I hate kickshaws. Not worth putting under a cover, ma'am. And why not have glass covers, that one may see one's dinner before one, before it grows cold with asking questions, Mrs. Carbuncle, and lifting up covers? But nobody has any sense: and I see no water plates anywhere, lately.

Mar. Do, pray, doctor, let me help you to a bit of chicken before it gets cold, my dear.

Fred. (aside). "My dear," again, Marianne!

Mar. Yes, brother, because she is frightened, you know, and Mrs. Carbuncle always says "my dear" to him when she's frightened, and looks so pale from side to side; and sometimes she cries before dinner's done, and then all the company are quite silent, and don't know what to do.

"Oh, such a little creature; to have so much sense, too!" exclaimed Mrs. Theresa, with rapture. "Mr. Frederick, you'll make me die with laughing! Pray go on, Dr. Carbuncle."

Fred. Well, ma'am, then if I must eat something, send me a bit of fowl; a leg and wing, the liver wing, and a bit of the breast, oyster sauce, and a slice of that ham, if you please, ma'am.

(Dr. Carbuncle eats voraciously, with his head down to his plate, and, dropping the sauce, he buttons up his coat tight across the breast.)

Fred. Here; a plate, knife and fork, bit o' bread, a glass of Dorchester ale!

"Oh, admirable!" exclaimed Mrs. Tattle, clapping her hands.

"Now, brother, suppose that it is after dinner," said Marianne; "and show us how the doctor goes to sleep."

Frederick threw himself back in an arm-chair, leaning his head back, with his mouth open, snoring; nodded from time to time, crossed and uncrossed his legs, tried to awake himself by twitching his wig, settling his collar, blowing his nose and rapping on the lid of his snuff-box.

All which infinitely diverted Mrs. Tattle, who, when she could stop herself from laughing, declared "It made her sigh, too, to think of the life poor Mrs. Carbuncle led with that man, and all for nothing, too; for her jointure was nothing, next to nothing, though a great thing, to be sure, her friends thought for her, when she was only Sally Ridgeway before she was married. Such a wife as she makes," continued Mrs. Theresa, lifting up her hands and eyes to heaven, "and so much as she has gone through, the brute ought to be ashamed of himself if he does not leave her something extraordinary in his will; for turn it which way she will, she can never keep a carriage, or live like anybody else, on her jointure, after all, she tells me, poor soul! A sad prospect, after her husband's death, to look forward to, instead of being comfortable, as her friends expected; and she, poor young thing! knowing no better when they married her! People should look into these things, beforehand, or never marry at all, I say, Miss Marianne."

Miss Marianne, who did not clearly comprehend this affair of the jointure, or the reason why Mrs. Carbuncle would be so unhappy after her husband's death, turned to Frederick, who was at that instant studying Mrs. Theresa as a future character to mimic. "Brother," said Marianne, "now sing an Italian song for us like Miss Croker. Pray, Miss Croker, favour us with a song. Mrs. Theresa Tattle has never had the pleasure of hearing you sing; she's quite impatient to hear you sing."

"Yes, indeed, I am," said Mrs. Theresa.

Frederick put his hands before him affectedly; "Oh, indeed, ma'am! indeed, ladies! I really am so hoarse, it distresses me so to be pressed to sing; besides, upon my word, I have quite left off singing. I've never sung once, except for very particular people, this winter."

Mar. But Mrs. Theresa Tattle is a very particular person. I'm sure you'll sing for her.

Fred. Certainly, ma'am, I allow that you use a powerful argument; but I assure you now, I would do my best to oblige you, but I absolutely have forgotten all my English songs. Nobody hears anything but Italian now, and I have been so giddy as to leave my Italian music behind me. Besides, I make it a rule never to hazard myself without an accompaniment.

Mar. Oh, try, Miss Croker, for once.

[Frederick sings, after much preluding.]

Violante in the pantry,

Gnawing of a mutton-bone;

How she gnawed it,

How she claw'd it,

When she found herself alone!

"Charming!" exclaimed Mrs. Tattle; "so like Miss Croker, I'm sure I shall think of you, Mr. Frederick, when I hear her asked to sing again. Her voice, however, introduces her to very pleasant parties, and she's a girl that's very much taken notice of, and I don't doubt will go off vastly well. She's a particular favourite of mine, you must know; and I mean to do her a piece of service the first opportunity, by saying something or other, that shall go round to her relations in Northumberland, and make them do something for her; as well they may, for they are all rolling in gold, and won't give her a penny."

Mar. Now, brother, read the newspaper like Counsellor Puff.

"Oh, pray do, Mr. Frederick, for I declare I admire you of all things! You are quite yourself to-night. Here's a newspaper, sir, pray let us have Counsellor Puff. It's not late."

[Frederick reads in a pompous voice.]

"As a delicate white hand has ever been deemed a distinguishing ornament in either sex, Messrs. Valiant and Wise conceive it to be their duty to take the earliest opportunity to advertise the nobility and gentry of Great Britain in general, and their friends in particular, that they have now ready for sale, as usual, at the Hippocrates' Head, a fresh assortment of new-invented, much admired, primrose soap. To prevent impositions and counterfeits, the public are requested to take notice, that the only genuine primrose soap is stamped on the outside, 'Valiant and Wise.'"

"Oh, you most incomparable mimic! 'tis absolutely the counsellor himself. I absolutely must show you, some day, to my friend Lady Battersby; you'd absolutely make her die with laughing; and she'd quite adore you," said Mrs. Theresa, who was well aware that every pause must be filled with flattery. "Pray go on, pray go on. I shall never be tired, if I sit looking at you these hundred years."

Stimulated by these plaudits, Frederick proceeded to show how Colonel Epaulette blew his nose, flourished his cambric handkerchief, bowed to Lady Diana Periwinkle, and admired her work, saying, "Done by no hands, as you may guess, but those of Fairly Fair." Whilst Lady Diana, he observed, simpered so prettily, and took herself so quietly for Fairly Fair, not perceiving that the colonel was admiring his own nails all the while.

Next to Colonel Epaulette, Frederick, at Marianne's particular desire, came into the room like Sir Charles Slang.

"Very well, brother," cried she, "your hand down to the very bottom of your pocket, and your other shoulder up to your ear; but you are not quite wooden enough, and you should walk as if your hip were out of joint. There now, Mrs. Tattle, are not those good eyes? They stare so like his, without seeming to see anything all the while."

"Excellent! admirable! Mr. Frederick. I must say that you are the best mimic of your age I ever saw, and I'm sure Lady Battersby will think so too. That is Sir Charles to the very life. But with all that, you must know he's a mighty pleasant, fashionable young man when you come to know him, and has a great deal of sense under all that, and is of a very good family-the Slangs, you know. Sir Charles will come into a fine fortune himself next year, if he can keep clear of gambling, which I hear is his foible, poor young man! Pray go on. I interrupt you, Mr. Frederick."

"Now, brother," said Marianne.

"No, Marianne, I can do no more. I'm quite tired, and I will do no more," said Frederick, stretching himself at full length upon a sofa.

Even in the midst of laughter, and whilst the voice of flattery yet sounded in his ear, Frederick felt sad, displeased with himself, and disgusted with Mrs. Theresa.

"What a deep sigh was there!" said Mrs. Theresa; "what can make you sigh so bitterly? You, who make everybody else laugh. Oh, such another sigh again!"

"Marianne," cried Frederick, "do you remember the man in the mask?"

"What man in the mask, brother?"

"The man-the actor-the buffoon, that my father told us of, who used to cry behind the mask that made everybody else laugh."

"Cry! bless me," said Mrs. Theresa, "mighty odd! very extraordinary! but one can't be surprised at meeting with extraordinary characters amongst that race of people, actors by profession, you know; for they are brought up from the egg to make their fortune, or at least their bread by their oddities. But, my dear Mr. Frederick, you are quite pale, quite exhausted; no wonder-what will you have? a glass of cowslip-wine?"

"Oh no, thank you, ma'am," said Frederick.

"Oh yes; indeed you must not leave me without taking something; and Miss Marianne must have another macaroon. I insist upon it," said Mrs. Theresa, ringing the bell. "It is not late, and my man Christopher will bring up the cowslip-wine in a minute."

"But, Sophy! and papa and mamma, you know, will come home presently," said Marianne.

"Oh! Miss Sophy has her books and drawings. You know she's never afraid of being alone. Besides, to-night it was her own choice. And as to your papa and mamma, they won't be home to-night, I'm pretty sure; for a gentleman, who had it from their own authority, told me where they were going, which is further off than they think; but they did not consult me; and I fancy they'll be obliged to sleep out; so you need not be in a hurry about them. We'll have candles."

The door opened just as Mrs. Tattle was going to ring the bell again for candles and the cowslip-wine. "Christopher! Christopher!" said Mrs. Theresa, who was standing at the fire, with her back to the door, when it opened, "Christopher! pray bring-Do you hear?" but no Christopher answered; and, upon turning round, Mrs. Tattle, instead of Christopher, beheld two little black figures, which stood perfectly still and silent. It was so dark, that their forms could scarcely be discerned.

"In the name of heaven, who and what may you be? Speak, I conjure you! what are ye?"

"The chimney-sweepers, ma'am, an' please your ladyship."

"Chimney-sweepers!" repeated Frederick and Marianne, bursting out a-laughing.

"Chimney-sweepers!" repeated Mrs. Theresa, provoked at the recollection of her late solemn address to them. "Chimney-sweepers! and could not you say so a little sooner? Pray, what brings you here, gentlemen, at this time of night?"

"The bell rang, ma'am,", answered a squeaking voice.

"The bell rang! yes, for Christopher. The boy's mad, or drunk."

"Ma'am," said the tallest of the chimney-sweepers, who had not yet spoken, and who now began in a very blunt manner; "ma'am, your brother desired us to come up when the bell rang; so we did."

"My brother? I have no brother, dunce," said Mrs. Theresa.

"Mr. Eden, madam."

"Ho, ho!" said Mrs. Tattle, in a more complacent tone, "the boy takes me for Miss Bertha Eden, I perceive"; and, flattered to be taken in the dark by a chimney-sweeper for a young and handsome lady, Mrs. Theresa laughed, and informed him "that they had mistaken the room; and they must go up another pair of stairs, and turn to the left."

The chimney-sweeper with the squeaking voice bowed, thanked her ladyship for this information, said, "Good night to ye, quality"; and they both moved towards the door.

"Stay," said Mrs. Tattle, whose curiosity was excited; "what can the Edens want with chimney-sweepers at this time o' night, I wonder? Christopher, did you hear anything about it?" said the lady to her footman, who was now lighting the candles.

"Upon my word, ma'am," said the servant, "I can't say; but I'll step down below and inquire. I heard them talking about it in the kitchen; but I only got a word here and there, for I was hunting for the snuff-dish, as I knew it must be for candles when I heard the bell ring, ma'am; so I thought to find the snuff-dish before I answered the bell, for I knew it must be for candles you rang. But, if you please, I'll step down now, ma'am, and see about the chimney-sweepers."

"Yes, step down, do; and, Christopher, bring up the cowslip-wine, and some more macaroons for my little Marianne."

Marianne withdrew rather coldly from a kiss which Mrs. Tattle was going to give her; for she was somewhat surprised at the familiarity with which this lady talked to her footman. She had not been accustomed to these familiarities in her father and mother, and she did not like them.

"Well," said Mrs. Tattle to Christopher, who was now returned, "what is the news?"

"Ma'am, the little fellow with the squeaking voice has been telling me the whole story. The other morning, ma'am, early, he and the other were down the hill sweeping in Paradise Row. Those chimneys, they say, are difficult; and the square fellow, ma'am, the biggest of the two boys, got wedged in the chimney. The other little fellow was up at the top at the time, and he heard the cry; but in his fright, and all, he did not know what to do, ma'am; for he looked about from the top of the chimney, and not a soul could he see stirring, but a few that he could not make attend to his screech; the boy within almost stifling too. So he screeched, and screeched, all he could; and by the greatest chance in life, ma'am, old Mr. Eden was just going down the hill to fetch his morning walk."

"Ay," interrupted Mrs. Theresa, "friend Ephraim is one of your early risers."

"Well," said Marianne, impatiently.

"So, ma'am, hearing the screech, he turns and sees the sweep; and at once he understands the matter-"

"I'm sure he must have taken some time to understand it," interposed Mrs. Tattle, "for he's the slowest creature breathing, and the deafest in company. Go on, Christopher. So the sweep did make him hear."

"So he says, ma'am; and so the old gentleman went in and pulled the boy out of the chimney, with much ado, ma'am."

"Bless me!" exclaimed Mrs. Theresa; "but did old Eden go up the chimney himself after the boy, wig and all?

"Why, ma'am," said Christopher, with a look of great delight, "that was all as one, as the very 'dentical words I put to the boy myself, when he telled me his story. But, ma'am, that was what I couldn't get out of him, neither, rightly, for he is a churl-the big boy that was stuck in the chimney, I mean; for when I put the question to him about the wig, laughing like, he wouldn't take it laughing like at all; but would only make answer to us like a bear, 'He saved my life, that's all I know'; and this over again, ma'am, to all the kitchen round, that cross-questioned him. But I finds him stupid and ill-mannered like, for I offered him a shilling, ma'am, myself, to tell about the wig; but he put it back in a way that did not become such as he, to no lady's butler, ma'am; whereupon I turns to the slim fellow (and he's smarterer, and more mannerly, ma'am, with a tongue in his head for his betters), but he could not resolve me my question either; for he was up at the top of the chimney the best part o' the time: and when he came down Mr. Eden had his wig on, but had his arm all bare and bloody, ma'am."

"Poor Mr. Eden!" exclaimed Marianne.

"Oh, miss," continued the servant, "and the chimney-sweep himself was so bruised, and must have been killed."

"Well, well! but he's alive now; go on with your story, Christopher," said Mrs. T. "Chimney-sweepers get wedged in chimneys every day; it's part of their trade, and it's a happy thing when they come off with a few bruises. [236] To be sure," added she, observing that both Frederick and Marianne looked displeased at this speech, "to be sure, if one may believe this story, there was some real danger."

"Real danger! yes, indeed," said Marianne; "and I'm sure I think Mr. Eden was very good."

"Certainly it was a most commendable action, and quite providential. So I shall take an opportunity of saying, when I tell the story in all companies; and the boy may thank his kind stars, I'm sure, to the end of his days, for such an escape-But pray, Christopher," said she, persisting in her conversation with Christopher, who was now laying the cloth for supper, "pray, which house was it in Paradise Row? where the Eagles or the Miss Ropers lodge? or which?"

"It was at my Lady Battersby's, ma'am."

"Ha! ha!" cried Mrs. Theresa, "I thought we should get to the bottom of the affair at last. This is excellent! This will make an admirable story for my Lady Battersby the next time I see her. These Quakers are so sly! Old Eden, I know, has long wanted to obtain an introduction into that house; and a charming charitable expedient hit upon! My Lady Battersby will enjoy this, of all things."