I look up, bewildered, from an essay to which I have just set the
caption--"Who is my Neighbor?"

"Me carackter, mum! Me stiffticket! You'll not be sending me away
without one, peticklerly as 'twas meself as give warnin'?"

She is ready for departure. Dressed in decent black for the brother
"who was drownded las' summer," she stands at the back of my desk,
one hand on her hip, and makes her demand. It is not a petition, but a
dispassionate statement of a case that has no other side.

She has been in my kitchen for six months as my nominal servitor. She
has drawn her wages punctually for that time. She "wants a change;"
her month is up; she is going out of my house, out of my employ, out
of my life. These things being true, Katy wants to take with her all
that pertains to her. One of these belongings is her "refrunce." From
her standpoint, I owe it to her as truly as I owed the sixteen dollars
I have just paid her.

I engaged Katy last May from a highly responsible intelligence office.
For and in consideration of a fee of three dollars, a lady-like agent,
with a smooth voice and demeanor, passed over "the girl" to me as she
might a brown paper parcel of moist sugar. She supplied, gratis, a
personal voucher for the woman I had engaged, having known her well
for five years. Katy had, moreover, a model "recommend," which she
unwrapped from a bit of newspaper that had kept it clean. The
chirography was the fashionable "long English;" the diction was good,
and the orthography faultless. Envelope and paper had evidently come
from a lady's davenport.