Pearse was like all other fine ladies, exceedingly particular about having her domicile talked about as the very achme of neatness, elegance, and correct taste. Mrs. Pearse lived-that is, took her meals and slept —in a small room, with its single door in the passage, and next to the other door which had the scrapers on each side of it, so that she had the power and used it too of knowing what time to a minute the young men came in at night, as well as the exact moment they went out in the morning. She knew every movement of every one of the sixteen young men who occupied the extensive house of which she was the mistress, or as she was proud of boasting about being the tax-payer, as well as the landlady. She knew the peculiar tread of each of the sixteen, and could tell by the creak of their boots, whether they had boxes upon their shoulders in the day time when going out, or young women-young women are the very eye sores of fine ladies-or young women on their arms upon entering the single room for the night. She knew all about the situations the sixteen young men lodgers were in, as to what amount of money they got weekly, or quarterly, or yearly, with the exact quantity of perquisites, as well as gratuities. In fact, she knew-aye, the only question is, what did she not know connected with the personal interest as well as the pecuniary affairs of her sixteen young men lodgers, as well as their prospects of any and every kind whatsoever. Mrs. Pearse did not care to know aught about politics, or to study much history, or to go into algebra, or mathematics, but Mrs. Pearse was contented with knowing something about religion, and all and every thing about the sixteen young persons who occupied sixteen separate rooms, in her quiet, steady, firmly-established, respectable house, for single gentlemen; for they were all gentlemen, every one of them, so long as they lodged with Mrs. Pearse, but somehow they lost a portion of their gentlemanly character when they did not.

Mrs. Pearse eyed Mary Ann Stone for a long time, as though she were reading the very inside and outside of her at the same moment, and asked her many questions about the last place she had left, the cause of her leaving, and so on, which Mary managed to satisfy to the best of her ability in so straightforward a manner, that Mrs. Pearse was struck all of a sudden with the conviction that the girl would just suit for the place she was anxious of having filled; indeed, it must be confessed, she had had some slight difficulties thrown in her way through the caprice of some young women, and the actual independence of other young women, for, would it be credited, some of those who had applied had turned up their noses-yes, turned up their noses-at the comforts and varied kind of little happinesses held out as inducements for them to enter upon the office, whilst many, and it must be stated, by far the greatest number would not-positively would not-accept Three Pounds a-year in consideration of wages. Mary Stone, however, was not up to, or initiated into the singular eccentricities of the fine-minded London servants, so that she agreed to take-and was glad to do so too-the responsibilities of the place, and the prospect of the money in order that she might find her own tea and sugar.

"Now mind," began the fine lady, "let me have no airs, nor no graces neither. You must do the work of the house without grumbling, and clean those boots that are put outside the doors-which ain't many cer

tainly as well as the knives and forks of those that pays me for 'em. I suppose you don't want to go at it at once, young woman, do you?" asked the fine lady, carelessly.

"Yes, mam, I do," answered Mary, at the moment.

"Oh, well then, you'd better clean these sixteen pair, and when you're done, then I'll find something else for you to do, Mary, for that's your name, ain't it?"

"Yes mam."

Mary was just about buckling too, after taking off her bonnet and putting on a clean apron, when she remembered the waggoner's boy who was waiting for her on the outside.

"Well, what success lassie," he asked.

"Oh, I've got a place," cried Mary, as she smiled her thanks to him for his attention; and when he grasped her delicate hand with his lusty one, she smiled again, when he cried,

"Well, lassie, good bye, God bless you."

66 And you, too, I know he will," she rejoined, as he began to leave the court, and had got half down it, when he returned and said, "Mind lassie, I shall come and see you."

"Why yes, of course you will, good bye." "Good bye."

And Mary was again in the house, whilst the waggoner's boy was on his way to the yard where his waggon was left the over-night.

"Now, young woman, "to begin with you," said Mrs. Pearse, sternly, "mind I don't allow followers."

"What, mam," asked Mary.

"No, and I won't allow them neither, so you must understand that. No young men, no nor yet even boys coming trouncing after you, mind that now."

66

Oh, yes, mam," chimed in the girl, as she took the boots two pairs at a time down into her little kitchen-for servants of all work have kitchens-where she commenced rubbing the dirt off, then putting the blacking on, then brushing and shining with such spirit that even Mrs. Pearse seemed to form an early impression as to her own good judgment in forming an engagement with so fit, so proper, and moreover, so hard-working and willing a young woman. For, to speak truly, it took Mary a very short time to do both the boots, and the knives, and the forks, with many other things she was intrusted to clean, by Mrs. Pearse, who actually begun to think of bestowing some token of her feeling on the young woman, in order that she might be encouraged to continue in the course she had so nobly commenced. Mrs. Pearse, however, did not do any thing of the kind for fear of its having a bad effect on the girl, but rather allowed her, after mature deliberation to go on working and working, just as though every servant of all work were quite as diligent as herself. It was curious to observe the effect which Mary's arrival had upon the sixteen young men lodgers, for they all appeared to wish to ingratiate themselves into her favour in order that they might be attended to better, and have ministered to them those little comforts which depend upon being in good odour with maids of all work. Mary rose from her bed regularly as the clock struck six, when, after lighting fires, she got breakfasts and boots

ready, then she scrubbed down the stairs, and swept out the rooms, made the beds, and attended to those of the lodgers who were stopping away from their situations on the plea of illness, although they were not particularly so. Then she got Mrs. Pearse's dinner ready, and ate her own. Then she served the sixteen lodgers with sixteen teas, and took in sixteen half-pints of porter afterwards. Then she chatted to one, then to another, and so on through, and said kind words to all until she found herself, and was found by the lodgers, to be a universal favourite, liked by her mistress, and beloved by every one of the sixteen single men, although to speak the truth, she did not care one pin's head more for one than the other, even if they did have the presumption to think-aye, and even to say so-all-yes, all of them-one after another.

Mrs. Pearse liked Mary for many reasons, but principally because she was so very industrious that she did all the work quite easily, and left her, Mrs. Pearse, time to enact and practise the character of a fine lady, not only in her own house, but also amongst the whole circle of her acquaintance. Mrs. Pearse laced her stays full four inches tighter, had her bonnet converted into a more fashionable shape, exchanged her plain boots for French-polished shoes, and went out to market without patterns. It never entered Mrs. Pearse's head to assist Mary. Oh, no. She paid a young woman for doing all the work, and it was her part to do all the lady; so she went hither and thither dressed, decked out in silks, satins, bombazins and chalis, to churches, chapels, meeting houses, Exeter Halls, festivals, oratorios, as well as to theatres when comedies were enacted, or deep tragedies made stern looking women use their pocket-handkerchiefs. Indeed, Mrs. Pearse went everywhere, and was seen at every public meeting-she had so much time upon her hands. She was continually looking out for vacuums where she might push her well-dressed figure, and was constantly asking her friends where such or such a sight was to be seen; and yet she was not happy : whilst Mary-and this is meant as a contrast-cleaned the windows or the boots, or the stairs, or the mats, or the knives, or the carpets, or the boards, or any thing in short that wanted cleaning, and was smiling and smiling and smiling again and again whilst she was doing so, that really if the lady could have participated in the happiness of the girl she would have taken to cleaning and scrubbing instead of fine dresses; but inasmuch as Mrs. Pearse-like a few other fine ladies who having not much standing, or position, or right in society-wish to prove that they can show as fine as those who have real worth without fine dresses, making them smile even though the whole world frowns at them. Mrs. Pearse was ambitious of being thought a fine lady, so she kept a maid of all work, and put on finer clothes on work-a-days than the did on Sundays, whilst her humble menial was equally ambitious of putting her little head upon her pillow after a hard day's work with the certainty of pleasing dreams.

66

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE OLD BONE MAKES THE FLOGGED WOMAN SMILE.

COME, leave this place, and let that child see the light of heaven," was the earnest speech of the good-oh! the thrice worthy-old man, as he went along the sloppy passages which formed old St. Giles's in company with the hard-featured beggar and her little sore-eyed child. His aged frame worked along as though it were moved by some mighty impulse; so that he walked into puddles and out of them, through heaps of rank mud, and in the midst of unhealthy vapours, without allowing them to operate in the slightest degree in stopping his feeble progress. For, after all, it was a feeble progress in consequence of his age and manifold natural infirmities; but it was fully apparent that his thin shanks went one after the other as fast as it was possible for them to go. Then he would turn round and say something encouraging to the determinedfaced woman about happy days yet, as well as nothing being impossible with the Father of us all; which had not much impression upon her features, although she began to turn the face of her child up towards heaven, as she a beggar despised and having been flogged-did not dare to be so.

There was something about the woman's face which was truly horrible to look upon, a kind of laugh at the dispensation of Providence, and a sneer at all human affection save that which was so strong towards her dependent darling. There might have been celestial charms dancing about the features of that woman once, such as the charm of virtue or the charm of hope; but now there was nothing human upon it save and except the very worst offal of our common humanity. She could laugh-oh! yes, as loud as possible-but there was nothing like a smile upon that expression, no, not even when it looked at the naked innocence of her child. And oh! Heaven! that there should be such beings upon the surface of our common country, who have a right to sympathy and love rather than to the scorn and contempt of the well-fed world!

But the child appeared to be the principal object of the old man's attention, and there seemed to be a kindred spirit between them; for it fixed its gentle eyes upon him every now and then as though it looked upon a bright and glorious object which was shining upon the whole human family, although it was an old withered bone, apparently fit only for a coffin. The three went on together through the intricate windings of that den of infamy, which is luckily being swept away from London, until they got into the wider streets, when the old man put the hand of the beggar within his arm and said "Come, you must be weary, I will support you," in so kind a tone, that really the woman began to think there was an object in the old bone's attention to herself as well as to her only joy and blessing; but they went on and on together. As they passed along, the old watchmen put up their lanterns and exerted their weary eyes as they went by them; but inasmuch as their lanterns were nearly as dark, as their minds, or

their eyes, they allowed the incongruous group to reach May's Buildings without any kind of molestation. They had not to walk far, to be sure, before they reached their destination, but there was a good deal of thought on the way, and more particularly on the part of Mr. Howard, who was thinking about the surprise as well as the real joy he should give to the good lady who inhabited one of the houses in those buildings, and whose lodger he was at that very moment. The old man walked a little faster as he entered the place, and when he got within two doors of the house he set up a feeble kind of run, and mounted the one step in order that he might summon the inhabitants. Perhaps it is courteous to the reader to state, that the house in May's Buildings was a large, old-fashioned one, with a white stone step before it, and having well-polished windows. The curtains, too, were worthy of consideration, being white muslin, which appeared to set off and give a clean healthy tone to the whole picture. It was nearly seven when they reached the place, so that it was surprising to all but early risers, to find how soon the door was opened after the gentle knock had finished its vibrations; but then it must be understood that Mrs. Harty was an early riser.

The old man stood upon the step whilst the beggar entered, when he, too, went in, and gave a look at Mrs. Harty which she understood in an instant, by taking hold of the hand of the hard-featured woman, as well as implanting a kiss upon the cheek of her little one. The beggar stared with astonishment when she found herself sitting upon a chair in a large parlour before a good fire, with every demonstration of a forthcoming breakfast; yet she was incredulous, and eyed the whole scene many times before she allowed her mind to settle, which it did gradually. The old bone took his seat upon a plain oak chair, and looked into the fire vaguely; while Mrs. Harty's children came quietly into the room, and took their seats at the breakfast table. They talked one to another, and looked kindly towards the old man as well as at the beggar and her child; but they did not ask a single question as to particulars, for there was nothing at all singular in the matter to them-no, it was an every-day occurrence to the whole family. Very soon the food made its appearance, when, after the youngest child, little Henry Harty, had implored the Almighty's blessing, they all commenced eating. The old man had his crust and glass of water as usual, and he invited the beggar to begin, who stared about the room wildly, first of all at the Christian woman, then at her seven children, then at the old man, until she got into a wilderness. Mrs. Harty rose from her seat, as did the old man; when, without a word, the children one after another went up and kissed the sore-eyed child, which had such an effect upon the poor woman that she called down a blessing from heaven upon them altogether.

Now as there was not much surprise manifested by the Harties, it may be presumed that they had many blessings, and in good truth they had; for, beginning with the mother down to the youngest child, they were all naturally kind to the poor, and that was the reason why old Mr. Howard lived with them, and that was the reason why they were blessed. As to how the old bone first of all became acquainted with the Harties that cannot be deciphered, but it was clear that