the kind she searched for. The one fact
that hung as a fruit upon her tree of Love, Lucy had given her; she would
not, in fealty to her lover, reveal its growth and history, however sadly
she yearned to pour out all to this dear old Mother Confessor.

Her conduct drove Mrs. Berry from the rosy to the autumnal view of
matrimony, generally heralded by the announcement that it is a lottery.

"And when you see your ticket," said Mrs. Berry, "you shan't know whether
it's a prize or a blank. And, Lord knows! some go on thinking it's a
prize when it turns on 'em and tears 'em. I'm one of the blanks, my dear!
I drew a blank in Berry. He was a black Berry to me, my dear! Smile away!
he truly was, and I a-prizin' him as proud as you can conceive! My dear!"
Mrs. Berry pressed her hands flat on her apron. "We hadn't been a three
months man and wife, when that man--it wasn't the honeymoon, which some
can't say--that man--Yes! he kicked me. His wedded wife he kicked! Ah!"
she sighed to Lucy's large eyes, "I could have borne that. A blow don't
touch the heart," the poor creature tapped her sensitive side. "I went on
loving of him, for I'm a soft one. Tall as a Grenadier he is, and when
out of service grows his moustache. I used to call him my body-guardsman
like a Queen! I flattered him like the fools we women are. For, take my
word for it, my dear, there's nothing here below so vain as a man! That I
know. But I didn't deserve it.... I'm a superior cook .... I did not
deserve that noways." Mrs. Berry thumped her knee, and accentuated up her
climax: "I mended his linen. I saw to his adornments--he called his
clothes, the bad man! I was a servant to him, my dear! and there--it was
nine months--nine months from the day he swear to protect and cherish and
that--nine calendar months, and my gentleman is off with another woman!
Bone of his bone!--pish!" exclaimed Mrs. Berry, reckoning her wrongs over
vividly. "Here's my ring. A pretty ornament! What do it mean? I'm for
tearin' it off my finger a dozen times in the day. It's a symbol? I call
it a tomfoolery for the dead-alive to wear it, that's a widow and not a
widow, and haven't got a name for what she is in any Dixonary, I've
looked, my dear, and"--she spread out her arms--"Johnson haven't got a
name for me!"

At this impressive woe Mrs. Berry's voice quavered into sobs. Lucy spoke
gentle words to the poor outcast from Johnson. The sorrows of Autumn have
no warning for April. The little