grace of contentment, a joy of conscientiousness, which puts her high
among civilized beings. Her delight is in order and in peace; what
greater praise can be given to any of the children of men?

The other day she told me a story of the days gone by. Her mother, at
the age of twelve, went into domestic service; but on what conditions,
think you? The girl's father, an honest labouring man, _paid_ the person
whose house she entered one shilling a week for her instruction in the
duties she wished to undertake. What a grinning stare would come to the
face of any labourer nowadays, who should be asked to do the like! I no
longer wonder that my housekeeper so little resembles the average of her
kind.



XVII.


A day of almost continuous rain, yet for me a day of delight. I had
breakfasted, and was poring over the map of Devon (how I love a good
map!) to trace an expedition that I have in view, when a knock came at my
door, and Mrs. M. bore in a great brown-paper parcel, which I saw at a
glance must contain books. The order was sent to London a few days ago;
I had not expected to have my books so soon. With throbbing heart I set
the parcel on a clear table; eyed it whilst I mended the fire; then took
my pen-knife, and gravely, deliberately, though with hand that trembled,
began to unpack.

It is a joy to go through booksellers' catalogues, ticking here and there
a possible purchase. Formerly, when I could seldom spare money, I kept