Betty Lawrence was a wild girl from the pine-forests of New Jersey. At
the age of ten years she became a bound servant in this city, and, after
the expiration of her time, came into my father's neighbourhood in
search of employment. She was hired in our family as milkmaid and
market-woman. Her features were coarse, her frame robust, her mind
totally unlettered, and her morals defective in that point in which
female excellence is supposed chiefly to consist. She possessed
super-abundant health and good-humour, and was quite a supportable
companion in the hay-field or the barnyard.

On the death of my mother, she was exalted to a somewhat higher station.
The same tasks fell to her lot; but the time and manner of performing
them were, in some degree, submitted to her own choice. The cows and the
dairy were still her province; but in this no one interfered with her or
pretended to prescribe her measures. For this province she seemed not
unqualified, and, as long as my father was pleased with her management,
I had nothing to object.

This state of things continued, without material variation, for several
months. There were appearances in my father's deportment to Betty, which
excited my reflections, but not my fears. The deference which was
occasionally paid to the advice or the claims of this girl was accounted
for by that feebleness of mind which degraded my father, in whatever
scene he should be placed, to be the tool of others. I had no conception
that her claims extended beyond a temporary or superficial
gratification.

At length, however, a visible change took place in her manners. A
scornful affectation and awkward dignity began to be assumed. A greater
attention was paid to dress, which was of gayer hues and more