started when mistress said, "Fanny, I want
to know if you have misplaced a book that
was on that table: it is nearly a week since
I missed it, but not chancing to want it till
now, I forgot to make inquiry about it." I
turned very red. I could not speak. My
mistress looked questioningly into my face.
"Do you know where it is, Fanny?"—"No—
yes—no. indeed, ma'am, no."—"Fanny, Fanny!
I am sure you are not speaking the truth;
there is something wrong—you do know
something about it." And she looked fixedly
on my face. I became redder still, but
did not answer. "Where is it? what is
become of it?"—"Indeed, I have had
nothing to do with the loss of that book."
—"To do with the loss? Then you allow
that you do know that it is lost? How
can you know this without having
something to do with it?"—"Oh! pray, ma'am,
pray, pray ask the nurse."—"The nurse! what
can she possibly have to do with the loss of
that book?" Again I was silent. The bell
was rung, and the nurse ordered to come
down. A glance at her face told me that
she knew what was going on. "Nurse," said
my mistress, "Fanny asks me to go to you
to account for the loss of a book which has
been missing for some days out of this
room. Do you know anything about it?"
—"I, ma'am!" said the nurse, pretending to
be very much surprised. ''Yet I can't say
that I know nothing about a book that was in
this room." Then turning to me—"Did you
not put it back again? you know very well
that I threatened to tell mistress about it;
and I'm very sorry, now, that I did not tell
her."

The only word I could say was, "Nurse!"

"I am sure, ma'am," said the nurse,
"I should have been very sorry to say
anything against her— and if you had not
found her out, I should not have told about
her. She is but young, ma'am, and may
improve—but, indeed, ma'am, never in my
life did I see a young girl tell a lie with
such a face of innocence." I was bursting
with shame and vexation. "May I speak,
ma'am? Oh! pray hear me—it was not I: it
was she who lost the book. Do let me
speak, ma'am; pray let me tell you——"—
"No, you shall have no inducement to tell
more falsehoods. I fear I shall be obliged
to send you home again; I cannot have
anyone with my children who tells untruths."
And she pointed to the nurse to open the
door for me. As she was doing so, nurse said,
"She told me, ma'am, how you had caught her
reading one morning, when———" Here she
shut me out and herself in.

If I had had money enough to take me to
Birmingham, I believe I should not have stayed
in the house an hour longer; but, how often
have I been thankful that I had not; for, if I
had gone away then, nothing could ever have
cleared me in the eyes of my mistress, and
I should have been disgraced for ever.

Though I had been five months in my place,
I had written but two letters; one to my aunt,
the other to the matron. I was never allowed
a light to take up stairs, so that I had no
opportunity of writing there. It was late
when the servants came to bed that night;
and, after having cried a great deal, I was
just dropping to sleep when they came
into the room. I did not sleep long. When
I awoke, there was darkness in the room
again, and the servants were snoring. Then
all at once the thought came into my head
that I would get up and write a letter to
my aunt. I slipped on a few things. It was
too dark for me to be able to see anything in
the room, and I did not know where the
candle had been put. Very much
disappointed, I was preparing to get into bed
again, when I remembered the lamp standing
on the centre table in the inner drawing-room;
that room of which I had the charge. I opened
the door softly, and found my way into the
drawing-room. I flamed up a match, which
gave light long enough for me to find the
lamp; then I flamed up another, and lighted
it. The lamp gave but a dull light; all in
the house was so quiet, and everything looked
so dusky, that I was frightened, and went on
trembling more than before. There was paper
in the case before me, and there were pens in
the inkstand, but I never thought of using
those. My own paper and pens were under
the tray of my work-box, and that was in the
kitchen. The lamp was not too large to be
easily carried; so, taking it up with care, I
went into the kitchen. The two cats on the
hearth roused up when I opened the door.
One rushed out and began to mew loudly.
How frightened I was! I waited, hoping
the cats might settle again; but they began
mewing louder than ever, looking up to my
face, and then rubbing themselves against the
meat screen. I was sure that they smelt
something that they wanted me to give them; so
I went towards the meat screen to see what
it was. There I saw a hand-basket, and
something wrapped up in a cloth. Pushing the
meat screen cautiously aside, I lifted the
basket out. Within I found a medley of things
that would have puzzled wiser heads than mine
to know how they could come together. There
was a thick slice of uncooked veal, two sausages,
a slice of raw salmon, some green pease, and
seven new potatoes, half a pot of raspberry
jam, a nutmeg, and half a cucumber. I did
not dare to untie the bundle— which was folded
up very carefully— but I could feel bits of
candles, and a basin among the oddments it
seemed to contain. I put the basket quickly
down again. The cats had been mewing
about me all this time. At length I did
contrive to escape. I had reached the drawing-
room, placed the lamp on the table, when I
saw the two bits of burnt matches which I
had forgotten to pick up, and which might
have left traces of my wanderings. There was
another bit somewhere. In my gladness to