had been such a bustling housewife, sitting the greater part of the
day with her hands in her lap, or dabbing the tears from her eyes,
and to hear her melancholy plaints, which grew the more frequent as
the time drew nearer for leaving the old house. After concluding my
arrangement with Mr. Vetch I went back to the farmhouse, flung my
cap into a chair, and, sitting across the corner of the table,
said:

"Only two days more, Becky."

"And what will become of us I don't know," says the old woman.
"'Tis the poor house for me, and water gruel, and I've had my
rasher regular for forty year. And as for you, my poor lamb, never
did I think I'd live to see you put on an apron, and say 'What d'ye
lack, Madam?' to stuck-up folks as'll look on ye as so much dirt."

"What's this talk of aprons?" says I, laughing.

"How can ye laugh?" she says, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
"Beggars can't be choosers, and ye'll have to ask Mr. Huggins to
have pity on ye and take ye into his shop, and ye'll tie up sugar
and coffee for Susan Cludde belike, and--oh, deary me!"

"Nonsense, Becky," says I. "I shan't have that pleasure. I'm going
to join Mr. Vetch."

"What!" she shrieks.

"'Tis true. Mr. Vetch has given me my articles, and instead of
tying up coffee and sugar I shall tie deeds and conveyances and