"Bella," said little Kitty, after a short silence.

"Call your own poor Bella, your Bella, dear," the housemaid besought her.

"My Bella, then."

"Bless your considerate heart!" said the housemaid.

"If you would not mind leaving me, I should not mind being left. I am
not afraid to stay in the house alone. And you need not be uneasy on my
account, for I would be very careful to do no harm."

"O! As to harm, you more than sweetest, if not a liberty," exclaimed the
housemaid, in a rapture, "your Bella could trust you anywhere, being so
steady, and so answerable. The oldest head in this house (me and Cook
says), but for its bright hair, is Miss Kimmeens. But no, I will not
leave you; for you would think your Bella unkind."

"But if you are my Bella, you _must_ go," returned the child.

"Must I?" said the housemaid, rising, on the whole with alacrity. "What
must be, must be, Miss Kimmeens. Your own poor Bella acts according,
though unwilling. But go or stay, your own poor Bella loves you, Miss
Kimmeens."

It was certainly go, and not stay, for within five minutes Miss
Kimmeens's own poor Bella--so much improved in point of spirits as to
have grown almost sanguine on the subject of her brother-in-law--went her
way, in apparel that seemed to have been expressly prepared for some