even a plain joint?  Yet it must be done,
sometimes, and I sometimes do it. And  then
I know that numbers of Betsys, Sallys, and
Anns, are either breaking china, spoiling
damask, ministering to indigestion, or taking
away appetite in families charitable or
hardy enough to have engaged them: or are
deteriorating in character, and becoming
utterly unfit for service, in the rough work
of the fields.

MISS CICELY'S PORTRAIT.

I do believe, said Mr. Dipchurch, the
steward of the Grange while doing the
honours of the picture-gallery, there never
came down upon God's earth a sweeter
angel than that little child with her arms
about the dog's neck. She was the joy of
the house; and if you were ever so
low-hearted, the sight of her bright face, as she
danced round the lawn, or tripped down the
passage, was as good  a cure as a sorrowing
man could desire—better, a deal, than can be
found at the bottom of a tankard. I declare
there was music in her merry laugh, fine
music as was ever played; and a little speech
of her's made heavy work come very light.
Every one was glad to have her at his knee,
to hear her pretty talk and prattle; and
she had such coaxing ways, there was no
refusing her anything. She would come to
me with, "Dear, good Mr. Dipchurch" (I was
under-steward then, and had charge of the
bread-room), "Dear, good Mr. Dipchurch, I
want a very, very big loaf for the poor woman
at the gate." And though squire would not
have been overpleased, as he said it encouraged
rogues and trampers (which I  believe it did),
yet I could not resist her little ways; and
she would go off with her large loaf in her
arms down the avenue. She had such delight
in doing of good works, that she might have
been a little sister of charity; and I believe
most of the pocket-money the squire took
delight in giving her, she gave away to the
poor people about, always getting some one to
take her out. It was a pretty sight to see her
going on these walks, in her straw-hat and
blue cloak, her little basket on her arm, and
the pet-dog following on behind. Pincher was
the name of the  dog—a sheep-faced, blinking,
yellow-haired, long-backed creature, who was
good for nothing but lying in the sun all day,
and eating at all times. No one cared
particularly for him; and he would have been
sent away long since (shaming the house as he
did), but that he was Miss Cicely's dog. One
day he came panting up the avenue with his
tongue hanging out and his fore-paw broken
by a stone, flying from some cruel boys of the
village who had been hunting him. At the
door he fell over on his side, and lay there
quite spent and exhausted. It was Miss Cicely
who, chancing to come out upon the steps,
took him up in her arms, cried  over him, and
tied up the broken paw with her own little
hands. The squire was  for having him shot
at once, to put the poor brute out of pain;
but Miss Cicely  begged so hard that they
would only try—just try and save his life,
that he was  brought in and taken all care of,
and soon after was going about quite sleek
and fat. From that time on he was Miss
Cicely's own dog, going with her everywhere
and very often I have seen her as you see
her in that picture, sitting on the terrace,
dressing his yellow neck with flowers, making
frills for his sheep's face; he blinking his
round eyes lazily, and letting her do much
as she pleased with him. For she was a
pleasant child.

Some way, I could never take much to
her cousin Lady Alice, and I believe nobody
about the place ever did. I fancy that same
ladyship to her name went a good deal
towards turning her head; for she was
always talking of her family, and what a
great lady her mother had been—one Donna
Maria, as she told us. Which was like to be
true enough, as her father was a proud
man, and was said to have married a prouder
lady over in Spain. He was all this time
away at the wars, fighting the French,
and for four or five years his daughter was
left at the Grange, and brought up with
Miss Cicely. It used to make us laugh
sometimes to see her little airs, and the way she
would walk up and down in her black lace,
a red rose fixed in the side of her hair,
with a fan, in the broad daylight, as she told
us the Spanish dames always did. This was
droll enough; but there were other points
about her that came, no doubt, of that same
Spanish blood, which we servants were not
long in finding out. If we were long in
attending to her when she called, or if she
were crossed in getting what she wanted, she
would toss  back her head, and beat her little
hands with her fan, and stamp her foot—
looking so wicked all the time. The squire
used to laugh at these fits, and, I believe,
encouraged them unknown to himself, giving
her her way in everything; but the old
people would shake their heads, and prophesy
that such a temper would never bring her
to good. Miss Cicely, curious enough, loved
her very much, doing anything to please her,
and giving in to all her perverse ways, which
the Lady Alice took easily enough, as if she
were a young queen, and such things were
only her right. But what I fancied least in
her was the dislike she had to the poor
limping dog—wondering how anyone could
take up with such a low-born cur. Often, very
often, I have seen her exactly as in that
picture before you, standing behind and
looking down with a sort of contempt on
Miss Cicely and her dog Pincher. It is a
mystery to me up to this day, how she ever
came by the odd notions she had. I suppose
she took them from her mother's country,
where, I've heard, that they are women
full-grown at sixteen years old. Once, indeed,