Waste not, want not

In the neighbourhood of the city of Worcester, and on the opposite side of the River Severn, is a number of houses, which form a kind of suburb, and which formerly composed a single long street, for the most part made up of mean dwellings, occupied by boatmen and other persons who have concerns on the water. About forty years ago there resided in a narrow court in this street a poor widow of the name of Fairfield, who supported herself by sewing gloves, by which she obtained a tolerable comfortable maintenance. This poor woman had one daughter, whom she treated with a mother's fondness, and whose spiritual welfare she earnestly desired. Those who have visited many foreign countries, and observed the manners which prevail there, will not dispute that there are more good mothers in our happy Island than in any country of the same size in the whole world. The poorest mother in England loves her baby, and provides for its wants to the best of her power: though there are nevertheless many Elis in our land; many whose "sons make themselves vile, and they restrain them not;" many who indulge their children in habits of idleness and every species of vice, thus doing all in their power to ruin those very beings who, in their infant days, were the joy of their hearts and the delight of their eyes.

The Widow Fairfield, as will be hereafter seen, was not a character of this kind: she loved her child indeed, yet never spared correction when it was necessary that it should be used; but accustomed her daughter from an early age to treat her with respect, and to give her all the assistance in her household matters which could be expected. She could not afford to send her to school, neither did she wish it; considering that, as her own employments kept her at home, there was no reason why she should not teach her child, and thus enjoy the pleasure of her company and be made worthy of her everlasting gratitude. The widow was not indeed a capital scholar; but then she considered it would be no hard matter for her to improve herself: and as she had a good deal of time every Sabbath-day, she then endeavoured to make herself mistress of what she must teach her daughter during the following week; and, as she often said, she thought herself very well off if she could keep only one step before the little girl, an object which it was by no means difficult to effect, for young children are very slow when first beginning to learn.

There were not so many little books in those days as there are now; but the good woman possessed an old Reading made Easy, and a Bible: and I will venture to say that with these books, if there were no others in the world, a careful mother, with the divine blessing, might give her child as much knowledge as she would ever need for the regulation of her conduct, either in reference to this life or the next. In these days there is a mighty stir about new books and new plans of teaching; but to render any plans serviceable it is necessary there should be good fathers and mothers; mothers who, while they are going about their household work, will have an eye upon their children, taking care that they learn and practise the holy lessons contained in the books which are given to them; and pious fathers, who, when they return from their work at night, will take their little ones upon their knees and speak to them of heaven and hell, of their God and Saviour, and other holy things.

Such a good mother as I should like to see in every cottage through all this pleasant country, was the poor Widow Fairfield; and, as might have been expected, she had great reason to. think herself happy in her little daughter Mary, who was as decent and as good a girl as any at that time in the whole town.

In the same narrow court or entry, as that in which the Widow Fairfield's house was situated, lived a waterman with his wife and children. The man himself, who was commonly known by the name of Ben Brown, or Brown Ben, (alluding to his swarthy and weather-beaten skin,) was seldom at home; and his neighbours would not have been sorry if his wife Grace had found occasion to absent herself as often as her husband, for it was no easy matter to rest in peace within the sound of her voice.

This busy body was always so engaged in-settling her neighbours' affairs, and correcting what she saw amiss in other folks' houses, that she had little time, and less inclination, for managing her own business; and though she had money in abundance, and no other employment herself, than that which occupies most of the females of the lower classes in and about Worcester, namely, sewing gloves, yet she never exercised any control over her children, but allowed them to idle the whole day in the yard and in the street, till the boys were old enough to follow their father.

Another neighbour in the same court was a Dame Crawford, an old woman, and a very notable body, who picked up a good maintenance by sewing and ironing in different houses of the town, filling up the odds and ends of her time in settling her neighbours' concerns, and retailing the news of one house to the inhabitants of another.

Dame Crawford and Grace Brown were, for the most part, very intimate friends, though they occasionally fell out, at which times the whole neighbourhood was sure to be roused up to hear them abuse each other in all kinds of foul language--though, to do them justice, they did not bear each other much malice, but were as good friends as ever when they had spent their anger, that is, if we can call such a gossiping intimacy as subsisted between these women by so good a name as that of friendship; which, after all, I believe never really subsists between persons who do not fear God.

It is easy to conceive that the Widow Fairfield would not find much comfort among such neighbours as these; but if she had no comfort in her neighbours, she had much in her child, and more in her God; and though she was afraid of turning out her little one to play in the yard with her neighbours' children, who, she was sensible, were no fit companions for her, yet she contrived to give her exercise by sending her into the country to gather sticks and flowers in their season, and even by walking out with her herself when she could spare a quarter of an hour from her work. Often, since Mary has been grown up, and parted from this dear parent, has she spoken with delight of some of those quiet evening walks, when her poor mother accompanied her, and sat with her under the shade of a tree, conversing about many pleasant and holy things, in which poor people have the same interest as the finest lord of the land. For, although the poor are not endowed with so many earthly goods as the rich enjoy, yet, have they not the same heavenly Father to care for them, the same blessed Saviour to provide for their salvation, and the same Holy Spirit to regenerate and sanctify them, to guide and counsel them, and finally to lead them to glory, as the greatest personage on earth can boast? And what is it, I ask, which makes our food pleasant, and our sleep sweet to us, but a consciousness of the Divine blessing creating such a peace as the world cannot give?

By working every day with her little girl, the good mother had not only taught her child to read her Bible with ease by the time she was twelve years of age, but also had improved herself so much that there was not a single chapter which she could not read off as well, if not better, than the parish-clerk himself; and, more than this, by hearing the Holy Scriptures conned over from day to day, her head became so well stored with Scriptural knowledge, that there was scarcely a text to which she could not turn without being told either chapter or verse.

From the time that Mary had reached her ninth year, her mother had employed her during part of the day in working at the gloves with herself; but she did not think the trade was a good one for a very young girl, inasmuch as the gains were small, and the confinement very great, the widow considered that if she could get her an easy service it would be much more for her advantage, though it went to her heart to part with one who had been the solace of her life through many a long year of widowhood. Nevertheless, this excellent mother thought of nothing so much as the good of her child; and setting self on one side, when Mary was fifteen, she resolved to enquire for such a service as she trusted would suit her. But the Widow Fairfield had no acquaintance among the great folks, and, on this occasion, she knew not what better to do than to speak to Dame Crawford, who was said to be an influential body with some of the best families in Worcester. Accordingly, seeing Dame Crawford's door open one afternoon, and the good woman ironing before the window, she ventured to step in with her work in her hand, not having observed than Grace Brown was sitting behind the door.

The widow had scarcely set her foot over the door-sill when Mrs. Crawford exclaimed, "Neighbour Fairfield, as I am alive!--what wind has blown you here?"

"Something above the ordinary, you may be sure," said Grace, from behind the door: "Dame Fairfield is not so fond of your company as to come here for nothing."

"I was purposing," said the widow, 'to get some light service for Mary, Neighbour Crawford; and I am thinking, that as you know so many of the great folks, you would be the very person to speak a good word for her with them."

Mrs. Crawford, though a very busy woman, was not on the whole an ill-natured one; and nothing pleased her better than to have it supposed that she possessed some influence. She therefore immediately asked her neighbour to sit down, and began to tell whose servants were at the next season for changing, and whose were to "stop on," as she worded it, and who actually wanted servants, and who were provided; with sundry other particulars which I shall forbear to enumerate, contenting myself with saying, that the result of all this was that at that time three places appeared likely to be vacant, all of which might suit such a girl as Mary. The first of these, and the very best in point of gain, was that of a maid to draw the liquor at the Widow Smith's, at the Sow, in Doldy: "a capital place," as Mrs. Crawford said, "for gain; for," added she, "the girl who is there now got, to my certain knowledge, twenty shillings at the last races, just for showing the guests into the parlour: and I doubt not, that, first and last, the place is worth six pounds a year."

"Ay?" said Mrs. Brown, sitting upright in her chair, "surely you don't say so!"

I do," said Mrs. Crawford, "because I can vouch for it."

"What is the next place you know of as being vacant?" asked the widow.

"Squire Strangeways, of Hollo," replied Mrs. Crawford; "where I have ironed, first and last, these ten years, though it's a great way to go; but Madam Strangeways does not fancy any of her things unless I iron them. There is a kitchen-maid wanted, just to wash dishes, and right up the kitchen after the cook: but it's a desperate hard place, though the last girl said there was some pretty winnings to be had by way of perquisites."

"Ay?" said Grace Brown, "I thought the cook had all them things."

"So she thinks too," replied Mrs. Crawford, winking at her neighbours, "but I know better, and so does Jane Harris."

"I think," observed Mrs. Fairfield, somewhat timidly, "that you mentioned a third place?"

"Yes," returned the other, "but it's a poor thing; Mary will scarcely have enough for shoe-leather, and so shut up and dull. Betty Hacket, the girl who is to leave next week, says, it's the dullest place ever any poor body was in. Not that the mistress is bad tempered, but she is so faddy, so timorsome like. She would sooner go of an errand herself than send the girl out at dusk; and then the lass has no time to herself, for the mistress sits in the kitchen when she has no company; for she is mighty near, and there is but one fire and candle between them: then the wages are not so much as three pounds a year."

"And who is this lady?" asked the widow.

"Why, Mrs. Shirley," replied the other, "who lives in the little bit of a house on Henwick Hill: as you are a good church-goer, you must have seen her a thousand times, for she never misses church; and you may know her by her old bonnet, and by her leaning on the lass's arm as she goes along."

"I have heard of her," returned the widow, "and she bears the best of characters. You would oblige me very greatly, Neighbour Crawford, if you would but speak a kind word for Mary."

"Is the woman mad?" exclaimed Grace Brown. "Why, when our good dame here has told you of three places, one worth six pounds a year, another worth I know not what, and a third which is not the value of fifty shillings; you shut your ears against the two first and gape at the third like a boy bobbing for cherries. Why, woman, you have no more sense than a green goose, and that's the plain downright truth."

"True," remarked Mrs. Crawford, "but if our neighbour has a mind of the old lady's place, why should not she have it, Grace? and if you wish to put out Hannah, I will speak a word for her at the Sow." The last clause was spoken in a whisper in order that the widow might not hear it.

"I have been thinking," answered Mrs. Fairfield, when her neighbours had ceased to whisper, "of what you said just now to me, Grace, respecting my not being over wise in wishing for the fifty-shilling place in preference to the others which our good neighbour proposed; and as I love plain speaking I will give you my reasons. I cannot say that I ever spoke to Madam Shirley in all my life; but for all that I have known her by character ever since I was the height of the table, and I know also her breeding, and have heard of the many troubles she has gone through with the faith and patience of a Christian. I also know that although her means are small she is the best of friends to the poor, and more like a mother than a mistress to her servants; and I consider that the care, and the instruction, and the conversation of such a lady as that ought to be counted of more value to a poor young creature, going out into the world, than pounds and pounds of gold and silver; of more value, I say, Neighbour Crawford," added the good widow, "than gold and jewels; and, indeed, so precious are they in my sight, that I should think myself well off if she would take my child for nothing, and provide her only with her old clothes.

"Nay, Neighbour Brown, don't laugh, but hear reason. My child is to be a servant; that is the way of life I have chosen for her: now a girl out of such a poor house as mine cannot be supposed to understand much of household work; and ought not we mothers to consider ourselves very happy, if, when we first start our young ones in the world, we can meet with good ladies who will take them only for their maintenance, without counting wages at all? Is it not a custom to pay a premium for a child to be taught the poorest trade; and when we put a lad prentice, don't we look to the character of the master? and yet, when a girl is to be put to service, we count the character of the mistress next to nothing, and we put no value at all upon her instructions, or her care, or her management, though these things in after life (not to speak of the world to come,) may be worth pounds and scores of pounds to the young person."

"There is something in what you say, Neighbour Fairfield," said Mrs. Crawford, turning round from her ironing-board; "and I tell you what, if you will just run over these few pocket-handkerchiefs, I'll put on my bonnet and step up this very moment to Madam Shirley's, and I hope that I shall bring you good news before an hour is out."

The widow expressed her gratitude in the strongest terms; and taking her neighbour's place at the ironing-board, Mrs. Crawford set out on her errand, being followed out of the house by Grace Brown, who, as she stepped over the door-sill, said to the widow, "Well, good woman, take your own way; but, I tell you, your lass will get nothing but sheep's-heads and cold tatoes for her Sunday dinner."

It was more than an hour before Mrs. Crawford returned; but the widow was aware of her being at hand before she could catch a sight of her through the window, for she heard her Neighbour Brown call to her as she entered the court, to enquire how she had sped on her fool's errand.

"Fool's errand or not," replied Mrs. Crawford, "Neighbour Fairfield is to go up with her daughter on Monday morning; and I count the matter as all but settled."

"Well done, Dame Crawford I" said Grace. "And now, as you have done a good turn for one neighbour, you won't refuse as much for another; for since you left us I have made up my mind to put Hannah to service; so turn about and go and speak a word for her with Mrs. Smith."

"What, at the Sow?" returned Mrs. Crawford. "Have you forgotten it is Saturday night, and the house as full as it can hold? with such a noise and ranting that I could not make Mrs. Smith hear if I was to shout to the very top of my voice: no, no, good neighbour, that would never do. Stop till Monday and I will manage the matter; only remember that I must have a new ribbon for my trouble."

"And what will you have from Neighbour Fairfield?" asked Grace.

"Oh," replied the other, "I shall be content with her good-will, for the creature has hardly one penny to rub against another; and if Mary can get shoes to her feet at Madam Shirley's, it will be as much as she can do."

"So that's all you get by serving such folks as those," observed Grace, turning in at her own door; while Mrs. Crawford hastened to tell the Widow Fairfield how much she was indebted to her.

And now, inasmuch as I must not make my story too long, I shall content myself with saying that the widow took her daughter on the Monday morning to Mrs. Shirley's, when the old lady was so pleased with the mother, that she hired the child, and appointed her to come the next Saturday--engaged only to find her with clothes for the first two years. In the meantime, Hannah Brown was hired at the public-house, and went to her place about the same time that Mary went to Mrs. Shirley's.

We will not trouble ourselves very much with Hannah's proceedings at the public-house, but shall only remark that the gains were quite equal to what Mrs. Crawford had represented; that is, if we may judge by the new gowns, bonnets, ribbons, and gloves which Hannah displayed when she came to see her mother; for, as Grace Brown very properly remarked, such handsome things are not to be had for nothing. But we hope we shall better satisfy our reader by giving him an insight into Mrs. Shirley's small, neat dwelling on Henwick Hill.

Mrs. Shirley's house was placed on a sloping bank, commanding a fine view of Worcester on the opposite side of the river, with its many spires and venerable towers. A little garden, cultivated by the hands of the old lady and her maid, and abounding, in the season, with roses, pinks, and tulips, encompassed the small building and shed its fragrance all around. The house consisted of an exceedingly small entrance with a very little parlour on one side, and a kitchen, rather larger, on the other. Two bed-rooms, a store-room, and a small hack-kitchen occupied the rest of the building. The mistress used one bed-room, and kept the other in great order for the reception of an elderly cousin, who now and then visited her; and the little maid, in consequence, was obliged to sleep in a kind of closet over the entrance: but, small as this place was, it had a window which opened into the garden; and beside the bed there was room for Mary's box.

The old lady was accustomed to ring her bell every morning at six o'clock, and she required her maid to have everything prepared for breakfast in the kitchen between seven and eight. The good lady breakfasted as soon as she came down, and the maid had her tea-pot afterwards, and took her breakfast at another little table; for everything was of a small size in this good lady's house. After breakfast all was washed up and put away; and then the old lady read a prayer with her maid; and afterwards, while she occupied herself with her needle, and in darning and patching her old linen (for she had little money to buy new), the maid read to her the psalms and lessons of the day: at the end of which service she was employed in rubbing the furniture and cooking utensils, and in making all things bright and clean in and about the house, and orderly in the garden; the good lady in the meantime followed her about, directing, approving, and finding fault, or sending forth her orders from her seat in the kitchen.

The cooking certainly was not much in this house; but Mrs. Shirley would have everything done well, and would allow of no flutter or confusion while dinner was being prepared. She also insisted upon having her dinner ready to a minute, precisely when the cuckoo-clock in the kitchen announced the hour of one. After this meal the maid's business was to clean up all her things, change her working dress, and prepare herself for a walk with her lady. This last occupation was Mary's chief delight; for when, after a while, her mistress found that she was a modest, good child, she used to talk to her when they went out, and often told her stories about people who had lived in the country when she was a very little girl, and explained to her their old-fashioned customs and ways of living. She also often talked to her about the Bible, and told her of the happy deaths of her father and mother, of her husband (for she was a widow), and of her only son, who had died when about nine years of age.

There are many most lovely walks in the neighbourhood of Worcester for the country abounds with hills and valleys, orchards and hop-yards, fragrant fields, and shady hedgerows; and the lady had great delight in these scenes and took pleasure in pointing out to Mary what was most lovely and admirable in the works of God, teaching her to look up from the works of creation to the Creator himself. And you may be sure that on these occasions she did not forget to lead her thoughts to the great work of man's redemption by God incarnate.

After their walk the lady and her little maid had their tea, and then the maid was obliged to sit and sew till bed-time, while her mistress looked over her work, and was sometimes even so good as to read to her; but if that did not suit her convenience, she always made her place a hymn-book before her, and repeat a hymn while she was sewing.

Thus day after day passed with little interruption till that formidable week arrived, when all the linen in the house was to be washed; and then Mary was obliged to get up very early and wash till late at night, and if the washing was not well done she was forced to do it over again; besides which she was made to iron, to plait, and stamp, and clap, and clear-starch, and puff, and fold, and go through all those troublesome businesses which young girls in general dislike so much that they would rather be dirty all their days than learn to perform them.

Mary Fairfield was fifteen years of age when she went to live with Mrs. Shirley; and from that time till she was seventeen she was as happy as it is possible for any one on this earth to be. - -Certain it is that she was not dressed so smartly as Hannah Brown, and that she lived plainly; but then she was kept as much out of the way of sinful and low company as the first lady of the land, and was always learning something new and useful. Some people said that it was very hard for her to be made to work in the garden; but then these people did not know that Mary found both health and pleasure in the garden, and that she was as delighted to see it neat, and to see the various colours of the flowers, as if they had been all her own; and, indeed, were they not her own? for were not their beautiful blossoms spread before her eyes? and was she not continually refreshed with their delightful colours? And was she not allowed, during the season for flowers, to send a nosegay every Saturday evening to her mother by the hand of the milk-woman who lived close to the widow?

Once a week Mrs. Shirley, when she was quite well, used to drink tea with an old lady who lived near her on the hill; and on that day Mary was allowed to take her work and sit with her mother, upon condition that her parent would walk back with her to the place where Mrs. Shirley was drinking tea. Thus the young girl was as much watched and cared for as if she had been one of the best of people's children; and her mother never failed to thank God for having provided her child with such a friend.

While Mary Fairfield remained at Mrs. Shirley's she grew very tall; and by being carefully kept out of bad company, and enjoying regular food and proper rest (for she was always in bed, and generally asleep, before nine o'clock), she became, with the divine blessing, so comely a girl that many persons remarked it to the widow; and even those that envied the good woman could not help saying that Mary Fairfield, even in her linsey pinafore, looked better than most of the smartest girls in Worcester. Indeed, it is not fine clothes which make a servant look well; but cleanliness, good manners, and modesty. These will set off the most ordinary face; while girls who are not well reared and kept at home, may dizen themselves out in every kind of extravagant finery, without looking one bit more like ladies than they would if they wore a linsey petticoat and herden apron.

Mrs. Shirley had promised, if Mary behaved well for two years, to give her three pounds instead of finding her with clothes, and she was as good as her word; but it was agreed that the widow should have the money to lay out for her daughter in what way she should think best.

Soon after Mary's second year with Mrs. Shirley had elapsed, she was one evening allowed to go to her mother's; and it unfortunately happened the same evening that Hannah Brown was also at home, having had leave from Mrs. Smith to see her father, who was arrived that day from a voyage down as far as the Channel.

As Hannah came into the yard, she nodded at Mary, who was sitting at her mother's door; and Mary looked with wonder, and, I am afraid, with something like envy at her glazed cotton gown, which hung in a train behind, according to the fashion of those days, and the ribbons in her bonnet.

"Why, mother," remarked Mary, "how fine Hannah is! I am sure she must have great wages to buy such grand things."

The Widow Fairfield answered shortly, "Yes, my dear, the wages at Mrs. Smith's are very good:" and then tried to turn the discourse to some other subject.

Mary went on with her work, and Hannah passed in and out of the yard several times, sweeping her train by Mary, and talking about the Races which were to take place the next week.

"Mother," said Mary, "I should like to have such a gown as Hannah's."

"May be you might," replied the mother; "but there are two reasons why you will not have such a one. The first is, that you have no money to buy such a gown; and the second is, that neither your mistress nor I should like to see you dressed in such a way."

"What, mother!" rejoined Mary, "do you think that gown is too fine for me? Perhaps it may be: but if it is too good for me, it is too good for Hannah Brown; and I am not sure, when I look at her, if I don't think so too."

"And what business have you to think at all about it?" replied the widow. "I am sure your mistress does not teach you to meddle with other people's concerns."

Mary made no answer, but whenever Hannah appeared, her eye followed her: and when she observed her light conduct, in talking and laughing loudly, and romping with her brothers and the young sailors, Mary drew up her lip, and looked contemptuously at her. The widow, however, did not perceive this; otherwise she would surely have reproved her daughter, for we have no right to behave scornfully towards our neighbours, though we should shun their faults. But as the noise and uproar in the yard did not please the good dame, she directed Mary to come from the door and sit where she could neither see nor be seen.

Not long after Mary had changed her place, a woman came in a great hurry out of the street to call the widow to a person who had been taken suddenly ill; in consequence of which, the mother was obliged to leave the house. She had not left the court many minutes when Hannah Brown put her head in at the door, exclaiming, "So, old playfellow, you are there alone? Well, I am glad of it; for I have a great deal to say to you.

"I want you to look at my gown," continued Hannah; "I put it on to-day to show father; but it was bought for the races; for we have always a sight of genteel company at the races: besides, mistress lets me go to the course once, if not twice, only I must be back a little before the crowd to get things ready against the company comes in.

"And now tell me," proceeded the young woman, "how do you like being boxed up with the old lady? I would not be shut up as you are in that dull place if you would give me all the world! and such poor gainings too as you have! I should not wonder if you have never touched a farthing of the old lady's money to this very day."

In this manner the talkative girl proceeded for a long while; Mary, in the meantime, not answering a single word, but blushing up to her eyes, as if it was a shame to her to be kept close at home and made to mind her work and improve herself.

"You don't speak, Mary," remarked Hannah, after she had stopped to take breath: "and I don't wonder that you are ashamed at the way in which your mother treats you. Why, are not you seventeen and more? and yet you are kept up like a babe that does not know its right hand from its left. Mother tells me you might have had the very same place as I am now in. Why, Mazy, I am sure if I was to count up all my gains since I was at the Sow, it would not be less than twelve good pounds: for I have bought this gown that I have on my back, and the one I wore last Sunday, and the yellow-striped one, and that with the large flowers."

"O, stop, stop, Hannah," exclaimed Mary, quite worked up into a fit of vexation; "don't trouble me with these long tales about your gowns. How can I help your being so much better off than I am? Must not I do as my mother bids me?"

"No," replied Hannah steadily, and at the same time setting her arms on her sides.

"Why, what would you do if you were in my place?" asked Mary.

"Why, I would not wear such a gown, or such a cap, or such an apron as you do," answered Hannah; "but I would make the old lady come down with her guineas; else I would let her understand that I should be looking out for a better service. You have learned a great deal, I doubt not, at the old lady's, for she is mighty faddy, everybody says; and you are now fit for a better place than hers: and, if I was you, I would tell her so before I~ was a day older. And I would go to the races too, that I would; and neither she nor all the old women on the Hill should hinder me: and that's what I would do."

Mary looked thoughtful and fretted; and Hannah went on: but, as I suppose my reader has by this time heard enough of her discourse, I shall relate no more of what passed on the present occasion, but only remark that she continued talking to Mary till one of the brothers came to the door to tell her that the widow was returning; on which she made off as quick as she could, leaving Mary to suppose that she had set her brother to watch lest she should be surprised in her neighbour's house.

The Widow Fairfield, when she returned, was so full of the scene of distress which she had just witnessed that she did not observe Mary's looks and manners to be different from usual; and as it was quite dusk when they walked together to Mrs. Shirley's, and she had much to tell her daughter respecting the sick person, the mischief that had been done still remained a secret to the good woman. It was, however, as much as Mary could do to refrain from bursting into tears and expressing her uneasiness; the words of Hannah having sunk into her heart, and inclined her to think that she was used harshly, and unnecessarily deprived of pleasures and advantages allowed to others of her age.

Next day was that day of bustle which occurred every month in the house of Mrs. Shirley; a day when all the clothes in the house were regularly subjected to the various processes of rubbing, boiling, drying, folding, and smoothing: a time when good Mrs. Shirley was full of care, and, to speak the truth, now and then somewhat peevish. Such things will happen in all families, and servants in the most agreeable places must expect them occasionally. But, unfortunately, Hannah Brown's discourse was no good preparation for this trying period; and Mary was at this time so very irritable that when her mistress found fault with her for slighting some piece of work she returned a very impertinent answer, and told her, that if she could not give satisfaction, it would be much better for them to part.

Mrs. Shirley really loved Mary, and believed her to be a truly good girl: she was therefore much hurt and shocked at her behaviour; and, busy as the day was, she bade her put on her bonnet that moment and call her mother.

As Mary's passion had not yet cooled, she instantly set off to run down the hill, resolving, as she went, to tell her mother that she would not be shut up any longer with Mrs. Shirley, to receive no wages and nothing but affronts. But in proportion as she got nearer her mother's house, the fear of her parent's displeasure cooled her courage; and had she not been withheld by pride, she would have gone back to beg her mistress's pardon. Indeed, I do not know whether she would not have done so as it was, had she not met with Grace Brown, who was standing in the road, looking across the water at some men who were building a booth on the race-ground.

Grace Brown no sooner spied Mary, than, setting down a ragged child of about four years old, which she held in her arms, she approached a step or two, and bursting into a loud laugh, "Why, Mary," she said, whither away so fast? how is old Madam? I wonder she is not afraid of trusting you so far by yourself; or, mayhap, you have made a stolen march, and taken what they call thieves' liberty."

Mary now felt more ashamed to turn round and go back than ever; and the consequence was that she went on, though she became every moment more and more alarmed.

Mary found her mother at home; and my reader may be sure that she made the best of her own story, and endeavoured to make it appear that her mistress had been both unjust and cruel; and had the Widow Fairfield been like many other mothers--had she taken her daughter's part, and promised to receive her home as soon as she should leave her place--she would probably have ruined her prospects for life. But this wise and good woman behaved on this occasion as a mother ought to do, telling her daughter that unless she went back instantly and begged her mistress's pardon she must never more expect any favours from her. Thus cutting the matter short, she took Mary by the hand, led her back to her mistress, and did not leave her till she had made her beg pardon on her knees, and confess her folly and ingratitude.

"And now, child," said this wise parent, as she took leave of her daughter, "I will tell you my opinion of the place you have got--that if I could afford it, so far from asking wages from your mistress, I should think three pounds a year too little to offer her for her kindness to you. Is she not giving you an education, which, if it be not your own fault, may be the making of you for life? If you waste or undervalue the advantages you have here, believe me, you will come to want them hereafter: and if you rate the little trifle of money which Hannah Brown gets at the public-house, above the care and instruction of your respectable mistress, I shall count you henceforward more of a simpleton than ever I had reason to do through all the days of your life before." So saying, the mother departed, turning away without even allowing her child to kiss her; a thing which she had never before done within her daughter's memory.

I rejoice to say that this wise conduct of the mother was, through the divine blessing, highly beneficial to her daughter, in settling her mind and making her contented; for, from this period till she was twenty years of age she lived with Mrs. Shirley; becoming, after a while as the old lady became more infirm and helpless, more like a daughter than a servant. In the meantime Mrs. Shirley offered to increase her wages from three to four pounds; but as Mary knew that her mistress had some difficulty in husbanding her little income, she very handsomely refused to take any more; "for," she remarked, "you have been my best friend, Madam, next to my mother; and I hope that God will give me a heart to be grateful."

"But you must not think, Mary," returned the old lady, "that I shall be able to make you amends when I die; for my income ceases then, as I have nothing but a little annuity to live upon."

Mary wept when her mistress spoke to her in this manner, for she had never thought of getting anything when her mistress died, her mother never having put such thoughts into her head, and she herself being too ignorant of the ways of the world to have conceived any such expectation.

When the mistress perceived her tears, she was sorry for what she had said; and holding out her hand to her, she added, "I have hitherto found you a good girl, Mary, and I pray that I may never have occasion to alter my opinion."

While Mary thus continued to serve her first good mistress, Hannah Brown changed her place several times. She grew so saucy to Mrs. Smith after the second year, that her mistress gave her warning; and she accordingly returned to her father's house with some fine gowns and caps indeed, but without a shilling in her pocket. Some weeks passed before she could get another place; and as her hand was out for the gloving business, she was obliged to pawn many of her clothes to support herself: Ben Brown like-wise being at that time ill in his bed, and there being nothing to maintain the family excepting what the mother earned. At length Hannah got a pretty good place In Foregate-street, and there she stayed a year, at the end of which time her mistress gave her warning; and all the gains she could boast for this year's work were the redemption of her clothes from the pawnbroker's shop.

Thus three years and some odd months passed away, and I think Hannah was then at home only a month; during which, she renewed her acquaintance with the pawnbroker, and afterwards was engaged by a butcher's wife, not far from her father's house, where she got plenty to eat, indeed, but lower wages than she had had in any of her other places. In this last situation, that is, as maid of all work at the butcher's shop, she was going on for the second year, when the change took place which I am about to relate.

When Mary had been five complete years with Mrs. Shirley, and had commenced her sixth year, she one morning, to her great terror, found her mistress cold and dead in her bed. At first, she did not suppose that she was really dead, and called aloud to the neighbours for help: but all help was vain, and she was obliged to make up her mind to be parted from one who spas now become as dear to her as a parent. The day before, she had been reading to her mistress, and had led her round the garden, and heard her, for the last time, speak of her Saviour, and the profitableness of holiness, not only in the world to come, but also in this life. But that tongue, which had imparted to her so much useful and holy instruction was now for ever silent; and Mary remembered, with bitter sorrow, every little act of negligence or unkindness. As soon as it was known that Mrs. Shirley was certainly dead, the good lady's cousin whom I mentioned before was sent for; and Mary remained in the house till after the funeral, having been provided with a black stuff gown and mourning-cap, which Mrs. Shirley's relation undertook to pay for herself, if it should be found at the opening of the bureau, that money enough had not been left to pay the expenses.

Mary followed her dear mistress to the grave; after which she returned to the house, which now looked to her a solitary place indeed; for while the remains only of her dear lady lay therein, she had fancied it not quite forsaken. She slept as usual that night in her little room, and not only cried herself to sleep, but awoke in tears in the morning.

Mrs. Shirley's cousin had brought her own maid with her, and therefore had no need for Mary's services; accordingly, after breakfast, she called her up into her sleeping-room, and giving her a letter said, "Here, Mary, is your character; it was written only a week ago, and is the dying testimony of your departed mistress to your good conduct. I found it this morning in the bureau, and inclosed in it five guineas, which she desired might be given into your hands, together with two calico printed gowns, and a bundle of her old clothes, which were all marked for you. And now, good girl, go back to your mother, and receive my thanks for the comfort you have given for some years past to my poor relation."

"O, don't call me good, Madam," replied Mary, quite overcome; "I am not good--I have not done my duty to my dear mistress; I have often been sulky and unthankful; and now I feel my sin, and have need to implore the pardon of God."

Mrs. Shirley's cousin shook Mary by the hand; and the young woman taking up her bundle and the five guineas, having previously engaged a boy to carry her box, went out of the house where she had spent five blessed and happy years in the acquirement of such virtuous and industrious habits as were a blessing to her through the whole course of her life, and such instruction as, with the divine favour, will promote her everlasting happiness in the world to come. As she passed through the garden, she plucked a rose from her old mistress's favourite tree, and then walked down the bill under the influence of a grief so deep and sad, that even the last testimony of her mistress's love and bounty was, for the present, unable to afford her any consolation.

Mary had restrained her tears in the street; but when she came into her mother's house, she cast the five guineas, which she had hitherto held in the palm of her band, upon the table, together with the bundle she carried on her arm, and without speaking a word threw herself into her mother's arms, and sobbed so loud that Grace Brown came running in to see what was the matter.

"Heyday!" she exclaimed, "what's got the girl?"

"Nothing, nothing," replied the widow Fairfield: "let her alone; she will be better presently. We must allow a little time for her getting over her trouble."

Grace stood still, and looked at Mary's black gown, saying, "Poor thing, nothing but a trumpery stuff: it's enough to vex her, after being a slave so many years; but it's all your doing, Neighbour Fairfield. I told you from the very first how it would be. Why, every one knew that the old lady had nothing but a 'unity, and scarce enough to keep her alive: and how could you be such a fool as to keep the girl there, thinking that she would get anything at her death?--But wilful folks will have their own way."

At this unfeeling speech, the widow looked up with amazement, and Mary was so struck, that she ceased to sob.

"Well," continued Grace, "it's just what every one expected: and I can't say but that I always rejoice when greedy folks and long-sighted folks are disappointed: and I hope, Mary my lass, when you look out for another place, you will demand creditable wages, and not depend on old ladies' favours for a future time; 'for a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.'"

So saying, the busybody was turning out at the door, when her eye fell on the five sparkling golden guineas, and at the same time she saw a corner of the fine chintz pattern peeping out of the bundle.

Had she seen a serpent looking at her from the wall she could not have looked more astonished; and such was the change in her countenance, and the fixed look of her eye, that the widow naturally turned to see what she was gazing at, and for the first time observed the guineas.

"O, my God, thou art very good," she exclaimed, clasping her hands together; "this is what I did not look for; this is indeed added over and above to all thy mercies." And while she stooped to gather up the money from the low table, the waterman's wife made off and the widow was left alone with her daughter.

In my last chapter I gave some account of the death of the excellent lady on Henwick Hill, and the return of Mary to her mother's house. The widow was very happy in the company of her daughter; and when she observed her improvement in know-ledge, and her dutiful and modest carriage, her heart was lifted up in gratitude to that God who had led her to sacrifice all other advantages, in order to obtain holy and useful instruction for her child.

Mary had not been at home many weeks, however, before her mother was informed by Butcher Oakes, the person in whose house Hannah Brown then lived, that there was a place vacant in a farm-house about fourteen miles from Worcester, on the Herefordshire side of the country; and from the character which the butcher gave of the place, the widow did not doubt that it might suit her daughter. Accordingly, having enquired where Farmer Taylor put up on a market day--(for the old gentleman always kept Worcester market) she took occasion to see him, and showed him the letter of recommendation which had been left by her daughter's late mistress; and when the farmer had read it, and looked for a moment on Mary, he hired her without another word, excepting such as related to the work that she was expected to do.

Mrs. Shirley had died in the early part of the summer; and it was the end of August when Mary took leave of her mother, and set off to Hanley, the parish in which her new master resided. Mary had never been so far from home in her life, and had seldom walked above two or three miles at a time; so that when she found herself about four miles from Worcester, she was not sorry to get into a waggon.

Towards evening after descending into a very deep valley, and crossing the river Teme by a stone bridge, the heavy carriage began to ascend on the other side; and coming at length to a place where the road was shaded on each hand by very tall trees, the old waggoner suddenly stopped his horses opposite to a stile in the hedge which separated one of these woods from the road. Then, pointing out a path which wound away through the trees, he directed Mary to get out of the waggon, saying, "there, my lass, if you are bound for Farmer Taylor's, you have no longer any business with me; my way lies to the left, yours to the right: follow you pathway to the brook, cross the brook by the wooden bridge; climb the piece you will see beyond the brook; and you will then find yourself at the very door of the house."

Mary presented the old waggoner with a shilling, took off her bonnet and placed her small box on her head, and presently found herself all alone in the midst of a shadowy and beautiful wood; such a one as she had never before seen. Having continued her walk some time through this wood, she at length came to the brook which the old man had mentioned, and having crossed it by the bridge, she began to ascend a steep pasture ground scattered over with bushes, among which a number of milch cow were then feeding. It was with difficulty that Mary, who had been little used to labour out of doors, dragged herself and her burden up the hill, but when she felt herself almost exhausted, she was inspired with new energy by a sight of the many-shafted and clustered chimneys of the old farm-house, the gable-ends of which venerable tenement soon presented themselves to her, as she ascended a little higher, frowning over the steep ascent, and overlooking the mighty mass of woods which seemed to extend themselves over the whole vale below. With another effort Mary gained the top of the pasture ground, and found herself at the entrance of a farm-yard, the house itself being extended in front of her. She entered the farm-yard between a barn and a hay-rick, and the next moment found herself in as busy a scene as any which her native town could have supplied. The yard itself was encompassed with barns, cow-houses, ricks, and stables; in one corner of it was a waggon laden with hay, which a number of men were unloading to make a rick; in another a red-armed Welsh girl was feeding a number of pigs; the farmer himself was standing at the top of the rick delivering his orders with a voice as loud as a church-bell; and on a flight of steps at the kitchen-door were the farmer's wife and mother, the mother being a very old woman trembling with palsy, and the wife such a bustling, tight, and notable dame as could not easily be found in the present day. The rest of the family, consisting of four great boys, and two smart girls, the farmer's children, were, as it afterwards appeared, all engaged in the hay-field.

When Mary presented herself, she was received with much rough kindness, by her mistress, who said she hoped that she would not belie her good character; and as the next day was to be a busy one, she was bid to take her supper and go to bed; the Welsh girl being at the same time directed to show her the bread-and-cheese cupboard, and point out the way to the garret in which she was to sleep.

While Mary was eating her supper at a long oaken table, placed at one end of the great kitchen of the farm-house, she ceased not to marvel at the white-washed wall, the chimney, the long casement-windows in their stone frames, with their small green panes, the quantity of flitches of bacon hanging from the smoky ceiling, the smell of wood smoke, and the old-fashioned appearance of every piece of furniture which lay within her notice. She was, however, so much tired, that after her refreshment she was not sorry to go to her bed. Accordingly she followed her fellow-servant, whose language she did but half understand, up two or three flights of stairs, and through several long white-washed passages into a loft at the very top of the house where she was to sleep. This room, such as it was, was lighted by a little sloping window in the roof, and the place smelt so strongly of cheese and apples that Mary felt she should have been suffocated, had she not admitted the fresh air by forcing open the casement, to the annoyance of many spiders who had spun their slender webs across the opening. She was happy to find, however, that she was to sleep here alone; and though the room was dirty, and the bedding far from clean, she trusted that she should be able to make such an amendment in both as would soon render her chamber a very comfortable place of rest.

Between four and five o'clock the next morning all the family was roused up: the farm-yard was all in a bustle; the horses were put to the dray and sent off to the hay-field; and Mary heard the voice of her mistress calling her maids to come down immediately.

As Mary had gone to bed early, and had slept well, she was already much refreshed; and while she stood at the window to put on her clothes she could not but admire the beauty of the morning, as seen from the eminence on which the house was situated. And though little time was given her for prayer, yet in that little she was enabled to lift up her heart to God and seek a blessing for the day. From the moment when Mary first appeared before her mistress early in the morning, till eight o'clock at night, she was in one continued bustle. It was harvest-time, and she had to fulfil the treble duties of house-maid, cook, and dairy-maid, all of which offices were to be performed under the superintendence of the mistress, who, though she understood all branches of household work necessary for persons in her situation, was so confused in the directions which she gave to her servants, that it was next to impossible for them to understand at first what she would have -them to do. Added to this, poor Mary felt herself so entirely lost in the long passages, wide cellars, vaults, larders, and dairies of the old farm-house, and so puzzled with the odd names which the mistress gave to the different things which were to be used in the kitchen and dairy, that the poor girl was quite in despair; and before the morning was half over she heartily wished she had, never undertaken the place.

At twelve o'clock, the pork and beans being duly boiled and placed smoking on the long oaken board, with deep jugs of cider, Mary was directed by her mistress to go to a little hillock on the brow of the hill, which she had ascended the day before, and call with all her might in order to collect the family to dinner; a business for which her quiet life with Mrs. Shirley had very ill prepared her: however, she succeeded in making some of the family hear; and presently the master, the sons and daughters, the servants and labouring people, all came crowding into the kitchen and sat down together at the board, the master and mistress, and their children, being at the head of the table. The meat and vegetables were followed by an immense fruit pie, not a morsel of which was left. As soon as this course was ended the master rose, and the whole party returned to the fields, from which they did not again come back till evening, when another coarse and hearty meal was provided, and every one retired to rest a little before ten o'clock. This mode of life continued till the end, not only of the hay, but of the corn harvest; and during this time Mary was heartily weary; but when this busy season was over, she found her situation vastly more comfortable: and by arranging her work she discovered that it would be generally in her power to dress herself neatly, and sit down to her sewing, a little before four o'clock every afternoon; her especial business being to ~lean the house, to wash and iron, and to wait on old Mrs. Taylor, who was almost childish. In harvest time it was the custom of the family to take their meals all together; but on those occasions the mistress and her children generally sat in a small parlour, within the kitchen, where they breakfasted and drank tea. The rest of the family, except in harvest, consisted only of the house-maid and dairy-maid, an old man, in whom the farmer placed much trust, and a plough-boy. The chief business of the dairy-maid was to attend to those things which appertained unto her dairy, but as the mistress directed all these concerns, little skill was necessary; however, it was found that the Welsh girl with red arms, of whom I before spoke, would not even learn the little that was necessary for her to learn, and as she was moreover very obstinate and very impertinent, it was agreed that she should be sent away; and the farmer promised his wife to seek after another maid when he went to Worcester Michaelmas Fair.

Mary was not sorry at the prospect of parting with Welsh Patty, as her fellow-servant was commonly called, for she never could understand either her Welsh or her English; but she would not have been grieved to have kept her a little longer, when, on the return of her master from the Michaelmas fair, he informed his wife, in her presence, that Butcher Oakes had recommended a servant to him, and that her name was Hannah Brown.

"What sort of a girl is she?" asked Mrs. Taylor.

"A good stirring girl," replied the farmer, "though I am almost afraid you will think her a little too smart."

"That is the fault of all the lasses in the present day," remarked the farmer's wife; "but if she will mind her dairy I sha'n't quarrel with her dress, for I am sure Patty is plain enough, yet I never could make her understand anything at all of her work."

Mary had not been unhappy at Farmer Taylor's since the bustle of harvest had ceased. It is true that she did not enjoy such opportunities of instruction as she had had in the house of her late excellent mistress; for though she went to church in turn with the other maid, once a fortnight, yet between these periods of public worship she heard no more of the Bible, or of anything belonging to it, than if there never had been such a book in the world; neither was there any such thing as family prayer at the farmer's, nor so much as grace before or after meals. Nevertheless Mary enjoyed some sweet seasons on Sunday evenings, and on many other occasions when she retired for the night to her little room at the top of the house, which, by means of airing and scouring, she had made a comfortable place. And often when she went up to clean herself after finishing the dirtiest part of her work, she was filled with very sweet thoughts concerning the Creator of all things, in contemplating the woods and valleys spread beneath her, the cows feeding quietly on the bankside, the dripping waters which ran down the bottom of the dingle, and the blue hills beyond all these. At such times, many delightful verses of Scripture, and portions of hymns, which her dear mistress and mother had taught her, would return to her mind; and she would often set her Bible open before her when she was at work, in order that she might commit other verses to memory. Meanwhile she was exact in the performance of all her little duties, and she found much quiet and comfort in pursuing her various employments about the house, and in making everything appear as clean and creditable as possible; she observed carefully all orders which were given her, and did everything precisely according to the directions of her mistress. After the harvest all of the farmer's children had gone to school, with the exception of the two elder boys, who helped their father in his work; and this was a great comfort to Mary, for Miss Bessy and Miss Dolly were so extremely rude and noisy that the house was vastly more agreeable when they were from home. Thus Mary found herself much happier than she at first expected she should have been; and she was sorry when she heard that she was likely to have such a companion as Hannah Brown, from whom she might expect some evil, but could hope for nothing good.

At length the day arrived when Welsh Patty was to go away; and Hannah Brown arrived with her father, Brown Ben, the same evening.

So smart a figure as Hannah's had not been seen at the farm for some time; and when Mrs. Taylor first looked upon her, she said to her that she feared she would find her long trains somewhat in the way in the dairy.

Hannah replied that she had proper dresses for work as well as for going outs and answered that she knew the management of the dairy as well as any country girl in Worcester, having been well instructed by Mrs. Oakes.

"Well, we shall see," answered the farmer's wife; "but you will be so good as to cut off some of those tails to your gown, and lay aside some of your top-knots, or you will never do for me, or I for you, for I don't see how six guineas a year are to provide all these things."

Hannah made no answer, for it suited her at that time to try to please Mrs. Taylor, and having made a courtesy she came out of the little parlour into the kitchen where Mary was enquiring of old Brown concerning her many former friends and neighbours at Worcester.

"Well, old acquaintance," said Hannah, as she came out of the parlour, "so here we are met again at the world's end: did ever any one see such a wilderness as this? such banks to climb, and such wild places to go through! Why, I thought I should have torn the very clothes off my back in coming through the piece just below. But don't you find it very dull?" she added, looking round the wide kitchen.

Before Mary could reply, Brown Ben informed his daughter that he was going, and the father and daughter went out together through the fold-yard.

It was some minutes before Hannah returned, and then setting herself down by Mary, who was engaged with her needle, she asked her how she liked her place, saying, that for her part, had she had any idea of its being such a wild, out-of-the-way country, she would never have come into it. "Though," added she, "I am heartily tired of the town, and was glad to get anywhere to be out of it." The truth was that her name was not much esteemed in the town, and it was not very easy for her to get a place in it; but of this she said nothing to Mary: and the mistress having desired Mary to direct the new-corner in her work, and to teach her a little of the ways of the house, she lost no further time in talking with Hannah, but showed her into the dairy and pantry, and all those places in which her business lay.

By the little Mary saw this evening of Hannah Brown, she was convinced that she was not improved, and was very thankful that she herself should have so little to do with her in the way of her work. However, as Hannah was her townswoman, she wished to keep on friendly terms with her; and sometimes it came into her head that perhaps it might be possible to do her good by speaking to her on religious subjects, now that she was, as she trusted, so far removed from ill company and bad example. But Mary did not know that those who love bad company are never long in finding or making such companions as they like; and that although she herself, since she came to Hanley, had seen no persons but such as behaved themselves decently and properly, yet there were not wanting many in the parish who could conduct themselves in a very contrary way.

Just at the bottom of the dingle, and near where the brook fell as much as five yards from the summit to the foot of a rock, was a thatched cottage, where dwelt an old woman and her son. The son seemed to be a tidy young man, and was employed about the farm. Mary had often seen him but had seldom spoken to him. The old woman, however, who was called Esther Stephens, seemed to lie under the suspicion of Mrs. Taylor, for she was forbidden to come near the house, and the mistress had more than once advised Mary to have nothing to say to her; and as Mary did not wish for any acquaintance it was not difficult for her to observe the admonition. But Hannah Brown had not been a week at the farm before Mary, early one morning, saw her, from the window of her little room, talking to this poor body, as she was going to milk in the piece near the cottage: and more than this, Mary saw her take something from her pocket, and give it to this woman. This was the only thing which Mary thought very suspicious in Hannah during the first month of their being together; though she certainly feared that she was an exceedingly bold and forward girl, having something free to say to every one, and some joke to pass with every person who came within her hearing. Hannah was, however, active and bustling in her work, and pleased her mistress well; who said, she had nothing to complain of but her long sleeves and the tails to her gowns~ but as Hannah consented to have a linsey petticoat and bed-gown to do her hard work in, and only desired leave to wear her finery on Sunday, Mrs. Taylor seemed to be satisfied, and all things went on well for a while. In the meantime, Mary never found any opportunity of entering into discourse with her fellow-servant on those subjects which, through the divine blessing on her parent's care, and the instructions of her late mistress, were ever present to her own mind. However, the two young women seemed to agree pretty well when they met together, though, as their meetings were generally in the presence of their mistress, there was the less wonder that two so entirely different should be enabled to rub on for a time without any open disagreements.

It was some time after Michaelmas when Hannah Brown entered Mrs. Taylor's service: and during the following winter things went on pretty well, the eye of the mistress being constantly on the new servant; but the winter having been a very severe one, the mistress was seized in the spring with a violent rheumatic complaint, which confined her to her bed, and filled her with trouble because she could no longer watch her maids and see that all went on rightly and properly in the dairy and kitchen. The rheumatism is seldom a fatal complaint, but it is a painful one; and the pain that attends it is a monitor, which, if rightly attended to, may teach many valuable lessons. But poor Mrs. Taylor seemed to have no idea of improving her affliction, all her thoughts, during her confinement to her bed, being occupied about her dairy and kitchen; and she was constantly sending for her maids to question them and give them fresh directions. Neither did she seem to know which of the two she could best trust: for, as she remarked, the one was so silent, and the other so full of fine talk, that she feared they had neither of them much good in their minds. However, she could not help herself; neither was her husband's mother able to help her, for the old lady was lately become quite childish.

In the meantime it was Mary's wish to go on just as usual, and to observe all her mistress's rules, whether of great or little importance--and she hoped that when her mistress should recover, she would find things as she had left them. Difficulties, however, arose which she had not foreseen, and under which she did not know how to act. The farmer himself was obliged to be much from home, and when he was out Hannah had full rule of the kitchen, and full command of the milk, the cream, the butter, the cheese, the bacon, and the eggs; and the first bad use which Mary perceived that she began to make of her liberty was, that she invited one and another of the labouring men to come and eat in the kitchen, regaling them with the best she had.

When Mary had observed this once or twice, she thought it was but her duty to mention it to her--" I do not speak, Hannah," she said, "of the trouble which you may bring upon us both by this thing, for it will surely be found out; but I wish to point out to you that we have no right to give away what does not belong to us." And Mary ventured to say a word or two on the subject of the fear of God, which ought to rule the actions of every servant as well as every master.

Hannah, who was skimming her cream in the dairy while Mary thus addressed her, heard her out without speaking one word: and then, turning sharp upon her, while her cheeks were crimsoned with passion, "Now, Mary," she replied, "go and repeat all you have just now said to the mistress, and let her see how spiteful you religious folks can be: but mind this, if you do, I'll be revenged upon you, as sure as my name is Hannah Brown."

"It was not, and is not, my intention to say a word to the mistress, Hannah, respecting what is past," returned Mary; "but I make no promise for the time to come: so you now know what you have to trust to."

"I do," replied Hannah; "and now, Mistress Mary, please to walk out of the dairy."

Mary did as she was desired; but as she was going through the long passages which led from the dairy to the kitchen, she met William Stephens, the son of Esther, who was one of those that had been most often feasted in the farmer's kitchen since the mistress had been confined to her room.

Mary had not been able to check a few tears which had started into her eyes when thus unkindly answered by Hannah: and William, observing these tears, asked her the cause of them; expressing, in his rough way, a hope that no harm had come to her.

"Since you ask, William," returned Mary, "I will tell you what has troubled me." And she repeated all that had passed between herself and Hannah; adding, "Now, William, I only wish that you, for one, would not be drawn in to do wrong. Do keep out of the kitchen, and just do as you would if mistress was about. I am sure, even as far as this world goes, it is always best to do right: and then, as to the next, there can be no question but that he who has loved his Lord most, will be the best off in the world to come."

The ruddy face of the young man became of a four-fold deeper red as Mary spoke; and he gave her a look of which she could make nothing at all, either good or bad; but she observed, that from that period, during all the illness of her mistress, he never once again set his foot in the kitchen. From this day there was not quite so much junketting in the farmer's kitchen by broad daylight as there had been before Mary had spoken to Hannah; notwithstanding which, Mary did not feel herself at all the more assured that things were going on well. There was one circumstance which she particularly observed, and this was, that pieces of beef, and pork, and bacon, sometimes appeared for once on the table, and then never again. She also found many bits of broken crusts, dry and mouldy, in different parts of the kitchen and wash-house, she saw drops of milk set aside in various cups and basons; and perceived other signs of waste which I have not room to mention.

"Why, Hannah," said she one day to her fellow-servant, as she put together some bits of broken meat and bread, left on the plates after dinner, "I remember the time when mother and I should have been glad of these bits: I wonder you should give the man and the boy so much at one time; it's tempting them to be wasteful; here's enough in these plates to keep a hearty man for a day."

Hannah, who was taking a kettle of water off the fire to wash her dishes, looked round her as Mary spoke, and said, "You had best take up these bits and show them to mistress, and tell her how ill I manage her affairs."

"I wish you would not answer in such a scornful way," returned Mary; "surely I may speak to you, Hannah, if I use no ill language; but the truth is, I don't love waste, neither of my own things, nor of another's. I often think of a saying which was sometimes in my mother's mouth, to wit, 'Wilful waste makes woeful want:' and I often fancy that there is never a bit of food wasted, in a wilful manner, which may not hereafter come to be wanted by the very person who threw it away. Now look here, Hannah; here is a dish of broken meat, enough to dine a couple of grown persons; it cannot now be eaten by decent persons because it has been thrown about and gnawed: and yet I will tell you what, Hannah, I think it more than probable that you yourself may come to be glad of such a dish."

"And why so?" said Hannah; "and why am I more likely to come to want than you, Mrs. Mary, with all your fine talk?"

"Because you are wasteful," replied Mary, "and always have been so ever since I knew you; spending all before you, and taking no thought for the time to come, not even trying to lay up for yourself a good name which might serve when everything else was gone."

"And pray," asked Hannah, "why is not my name as good as yours? I'll tell you what," she added, snatching the plate from her hand, "I wish you would go up stairs and mind your sewing; and not meddle with things which don't belong to you."

"Hannah," returned Mary, "I don't meddle with what does not belong to me: were I to let you waste my master's goods without speaking a word, I might be set down as an accomplice in your fault. He that is partner with a thief is all the same, as to guilt, as the thief himself."

"Ay!" exclaimed Hannah; "surely you don't mean to call me a thief?"

"By no means," replied Mary, "I had no such thought; I only warned you against being wasteful. And I do entreat you, my dear Hannah, to listen to me and avoid these practices which lead to ruin." She then proceeded to say something on the importance of endeavouring to please God, and the happiness of those who are early led to seek him; but Hannah suddenly interrupted her by opening the kitchen-window and throwing out the whole contents of the plate of broken meat upon a dunghill, or heap of ashes, which lay just under it.

This window of the kitchen was on that side of the house which was least frequented, and opened into a narrow lane that passed from a gravel-pit to the turnpike-road, a lane which was seldom used, excepting by carts going for gravel. This was, therefore, a convenient place for throwing out all that offended from the kitchen; and the present collection of bones, meat, and crusts, was not the first which had been cast upon the dunghill by Hannah and others of the farmer's servants who had gone before her.

Mary was startled at the quick motion of Hannah, and was not less surprised when the young woman turning to her said, "Are not you much obliged to me, Mrs. Mary? have not you got something to tell of me now? Why don't you go up to the mistress and let her know at once what a vile hussey she has in her house?"

Mary stood still a moment, hesitating what she should do; not knowing whether she ought to again try persuasion with Hannah, or at once tell all her misdemeanors to her mistress; when suddenly a gentle tap was heard at the kitchen-door and Mary's mother walked in.

Mary would have rejoiced to have seen her mother at any time, but she was particularly well pleased to see her at this moment, when she stood in so much need of advice, and the widow was not less pleased to meet her daughter. But Hannah Brown looked a little shy of her old neighbour, and walked off to her dairy without so much as offering the poor woman a bit of bread.

The widow was not, however, without a welcome; for the mistress, being told that she was come, sent to see her, and kept her at the farm as much as a week; for she fancied that she had a better method of handling her swollen limbs than any other person she had tried. And so pleased was she with her, on further acquaintance, that she invited her to come again in harvest-time.

While the widow was at the farm, Mary took occasion to tell her of the trouble she was in about the waste and destruction in the kitchen; and she asked her mother whether it was not her duty to tell her mistress of what she had seen amiss.

The widow gave her opinion, that it is always wrong to conceal sin, and by so doing to give encouragement to what is amiss.

"But," added she, "before we tell of the poor sinful girl, let us make one more trial to set her right. I will take occasion to talk with her, and to lay before her the sin of her conduct; and perhaps the Almighty may bless my endeavours." Accordingly, the good woman followed Hannah into her dairy the same evening, and there held a long and affectionate discourse with her.

She took occasion to lay before her the nature of man's fallen state on earth, and to explain the remedy provided by God the Father for the restoration of his lost creatures. She showed how man had been at first made innocent, and how he had rendered himself corrupt; and she pointed out the consequences which must surely follow if he obey the dictates of his corrupt inclinations. She endeavoured also to make Hannah understand that the only means of obtaining peace on earth, and happiness above, is faithfully to love and serve the holy Saviour.

"There is no good thing, my dear Hannah," said the widow, "such as is needful for the servants of God in this world, which they do not enjoy; neither is anything withheld from them but what would be injurious; and whoever is persuaded of this truth will be content with his lot, and never endeavour to appropriate to his own use the good things which belong to another, nor permit himself in any waste, being well assured that he will be called to account for all such extravagence, if not in this world, yet in that which is to come."

In this manner did the good woman discourse with Hannah, entreating her earnestly to take heed to the concerns of her soul; and beseeching her, in the most affectionate manner, to refrain from all those low and underhand proceedings by which masters and mistresses are impoverished and servants brought to ruin.

Hannah, however, said little in reply to Mrs. Fairfield; though, certain it is, that from that time she was more cautious of what she did in the presence of Mary.

At the end of a week Mrs. Fairfield returned to Worcester, and Mrs. Taylor began to be about again, though it was a long time before she was as active as before her illness. It was not Mary's business to watch her fellow-servant; and, as nothing came directly before her eyes, she hoped that Hannah was really become more faithful towards her master: but one evening, just at that time of the year when the sun sets about six o'clock, as she was sewing in the window of her garret, which overlooked the whole garden at the back of the house, she saw Hannah go quietly down a grass walk, that ran in a line with the hedge, and enter into an arbour at the bottom, whence she presently returned, pretending, as she walked along, to be looking out for something growing in the beds. Mary would have thought the less of this if, a few minutes or a quarter of an hour afterwards, she had not seen Esther Stephens come creeping up the bushy piece, so often mentioned before, and advance to the corner of the garden behind the arbour; and as the evening became every moment more dusk, she saw no more of her.

Mary, however, resolved that she would disturb these people if they were about any mischievous scheme; and, accordingly, that same evening she told her mistress, in the presence of Hannah, that she had seen Esther Stephens creeping about the garden-hedge, and she only hoped that she was about no mischief.

"You may be sure," replied the mistress, "that she was about no good; for she is one of the most dishonest bodies in the country round."

Hannah had taken no visible notice of Mary while she spoke but Mary observed that she was particularly sulky with her all the next day: and as she never saw Hannah walk down to the arbour again in the dusk, she hoped, that if there had been any mischief, she had put an end to it. From that time till the harvest, everything seemed to go on pretty smoothly: Mary's year was up in the middle of harvest, and she received five guineas, and agreed to stay another year for six. Of these five guineas she was enabled to send two to her mother to put to the five pounds which had been left her by her late mistress; and with them she sent her mother two pairs of woollen stockings of her own knitting, and one or two other little presents.

I must not conceal from my reader, that when Mary found she was worth seven guineas she began to think very highly of herself, and once or twice answered her mistress rather impertinently; but her excellent mother, happening to arrive about this time, made her beg pardon of her mistress, and laid before her the ingratitude of such conduct, both towards God and man, in colours so strong that Mary became thoroughly humble and ashamed of herself.

During the bustle of harvest, it was observed that Hannah had become much more impertinent to her mistress, and had taken less and less pains to please her. She had contrived, too, during the year, by little and little, to get all her wages from her master: and on the Saturday before the Hanley Wake, she got a few more shillings from him on pretence of paying a woman, whom she was to see at church, for some wool which she had been spinning for the boys' stockings. It was Hannah's turn to go to church on the Wake Sunday: and she asked Mary to milk the cows for her in the evening, and to put the new milk in the pans, in order to give her time to enjoy herself. To all this Mary consented; and she went out at the usual hour with a pail on her head. In the bushy piece, where the cows were, she met William Stephens, who offered to bring up the cows for her to the top of the field.

"How comes it, William," asked Mary, "that you are not at the wake?"

The young man coloured. "Because," he answered. "I am beginning to have some thoughts about these things, which I never had before. Our parson, to be sure, is a good man," continued William; "and when I have been at church I have thought, sometimes, how desperately wicked we all are: but, somehow, none of these things took much hold upon me till I met you that day in the passage, and you dropped that word about honesty and the duty of us servants and the blessing of God; and since that I have wished to do better, and have said a deal to my mother about her ways.

Mary made some answer to William, by which she endeavoured to encourage him in his wishes to do well: and they then parted.

The great clock in the kitchen had struck ten before any of those who had been at the wake were at home again. The farmer himself was the foremost, and the first question he asked was, "Where's Hannah?"

"Why, at the wake, is she not?" returned the mistress.

"No," replied the farmer, "I have not seen her all the evening." A general enquiry was then set on foot concerning the absentee, but no one could give any account of her: nor was it till several days afterwards that it was discovered she went off with a number of people who travelled about the country with a show, one of whom had made acquaintance with her, nobody knows how, and nobody knows when, though it is pretty certain that Esther Stephens, who sometimes went about the country telling fortunes, had helped her in keeping up the connexion.

After the departure of Hannah many changes took place at the farm. The old mother of the farmer died, and the two daughters came home from school. Mary undertook the dairy-work and the cooking, and got another guinea a year; and the mistress continuing to be rheumatic, and her daughters fit for nothing in a useful way, much fell on the hands of this good young woman; which, when her mother saw, she left the city and came to live near the farm: not that she might gain any advantages through her daughter's means, but that she might from time to time uphold her in well-doing.

Mrs. Taylor found no small difference as to expence between Mary's housekeeping and that of poor Hannah Brown; for Mary encouraged no idle persons to come about the house for what they could get, though she was ever willing to plead for the needy, and to make the best of anything which was allowed for soup or broth for the poor.

By her mother's management, Mary contrived to put by a few guineas every year, and when she had lived about seven years with

Mrs. Taylor, she had saved as much as 20l., and had a decent stock of linen and other garments of a plain kind into the bargain.

About this time, old Esther Stephens dying, Mary was married to William, who, for many years past, had been enabled to lead a respectable life. The old cottage by the brook was repaired, the garden cleaned up and planted, the walls whitewashed, and Mary and William having put a little money together to buy furniture, the young couple found themselves as comfortably settled as they could ever have had reason to expect. Mary's excellent mother also became an inhabitant of the cottage, and by her piety and industry, did all in her power to advance the temporal and spiritual happiness of her children.

William and Mary had been married two years, and had been blessed with one little healthy girl, when Mary, as was frequently the case, was one day sent for to the farm, and directed to occupy the place of the dairy-maid, who had been taken suddenly it. Mary, who was always at home in the old kitchen or dairy, was exceedingly busy with her work, when suddenly she heard the cry of a child, which, though faint, and not at all resembling the voice of her own baby which had been left with its grandmother, filled her with some such painful feelings as mothers only know. She immediately ran to the yard-door, expecting to see some poor beggar with an infant in her arms, but seeing no such person she returned to her work, and had been busied with it some time, when another faint cry reached her ear, and she now was aware that the sound proceeded from the end of the kitchen where the old casement window opened upon the private road which led to the gravel-pit.

Being directed by the sound she ran to the window, and throwing it open saw a miserable, ragged woman lying on the ash-heap, which the slovenly habits of country life still left under the window, and which had greatly increased in magnitude since Mary had ceased to preside over the kitchen of the farm. The unhappy stranger had laid her head upon the ashes, and misery and death were painted on such parts of her hollow cheeks and sunken features as were visible to Mary.

Near the head of this miserable creature, and on the top of the heap of rubbish, lay a wretched infant, pale and meagre; and though evidently as much as fourteen or sixteen months old, unable to support itself in an erect posture. Its little hands were busy in collecting such refuses of food as the careless servants had thrown out of the window along with the dust and litter of the house; and at the moment in which Mary opened the casement, the little thing was conveying to its mouth a blackened and mouldy crust.

"What do you want?" asked Mary, as she opened the window, and looked down on the wretched stranger. "Good woman, have you no home? has this poor infant no father? what can have reduced you to this wretched condition?"

As she spoke the woman looked up and uttered a heavy groan, while the child renewed its faint and miserable cry.

The mistress was not in the house; but Mary knew she would never suffer anyone to die for want at her door: she therefore took a porringer of soup from a kettle of the same which was boiling over the fire, and breaking some bread into it, went to the wretched wanderers.

She tried to rouse the woman, but she had turned her face in such a direction that Mary could not obtain a view of it, neither could she got her to utter a word. She hastened, therefore, to cool the broth and feed the child, who received it with the eagerness of one ready to perish: and while she was thus employed some of the men-servants came up, and at the entreaty of Mary, carried the miserable woman to an out-house, where they laid her on straw.

As Mary always kept herself clean and decent, she felt some unwillingness to lift up the miserable baby from the ash-heap; but while she hesitated, and the unhappy little creature held out its arms to be carried after its mother, she remembered these words of the prophet Ezekiel, "None eye pitied thee, to do any of these unto thee, to have compassion upon thee; but thou west cast out in the open field, to the loathing of thy person;" and when she recollected them, she took up the baby and carried it after its mother.

Can it be doubted by any one who has read this history, who this miserable woman was whom Mary found gasping on an ash-heap; and whose child was glad to appease its hunger where dogs would almost have refused to feed?

This unhappy woman was Hannah Brown; but as she expired within a very few hours of her arrival at the farm, and as the use of speech was denied her during that time, it was never known how she had spent the seven years of her absence from the farm, nor who was the father of her miserable child. Hannah died in Farmer Taylor's out-house, and was committed to the dust in as humble and private a way as possible.

The poor infant was taken home by Mary and William, and they had just resolved to keep him with their own, and do the best they could for him, when Farmer Taylor informed them that the parish were willing to give them two shillings a week for his keep, and that the lady of the manor having heard the story, had determined to add another shilling a week to that sum, and promised to send the little orphan a coat every year.

Several years are past since the death of Hannah Brown; but the good widow and her family are still living in the cottage by the brook, and the blessing of heaven is shed on all its inhabitants: for "I have been young, and now am old: but never did I see the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread!"