"an' you can call me Mrs. Pill, that being the name of my late
'usband, who died of gin in excess. The other servants is
housemaid and page, though to be sure he's more of a
man-of-all-work, being forty if he's a day, and likewise
coachman, when he drives out Miss Loach in her donkey
carriage. Thomas is his name, my love." The cook was rapidly
becoming more and more friendly, "and the housemaid is called
Geraldine, for which 'eaven forgives her parents, she bein'
spotty and un'ealthy and by no means a Bow-Bell's 'eroine,
which 'er name makes you think of. But there's a dear, I'm
talking brilliant, when you're dying for a cup of tea, and
need to get your box unpacked, by which I mean that I sees the
porter with the barrer."

The newly-arrived parlor-maid was pleased by this friendly if
ungrammatical reception, and thought she would like the cook
in spite of her somewhat tiresome tongue. For the next hour
she was unpacking her box and arranging a pleasant little room
at the back. She shared this with the spotty Geraldine, who
seemed to be a good-natured girl. Apparently Miss Loach
looked after her servants and made them comfortable. Thomas
proved to be amiable if somewhat stupid, and welcomed Susan to
tea affably but with sheepish looks. As the servants seemed
pleasant, the house comfortable, and as the salary was
excellent, Susan concluded that she had--as the saying is--
fallen on her feet.

The quartette had tea in the servants' hall, and there was
plenty of well-cooked if plain victuals. Miss Loach dined at
half-past six and Susan assumed her dress and cap. She laid