at as small cost to you as possible.
You can't change me with wasting your property, at least."

"There, there, dear! That will do. Say no more about it," returned
Mr. Smith, in a soothing voice. "I didn't mean to be unkind. Still,
I do think that you are a little over-particular about the
children's clothes, as I have said before--over-particular in the
matter of having things _just so_. Better, a great deal, I think,
spare a few hours from _extra work_ given to the clothing designed
for their bodies, to that which is to array and beautify their
minds."

"Now, Mr. Smith!" I exclaimed, and then bending my face into my
hands, gave way to involuntary tears.

That he should have said this!

CHAPTER XV.

CURIOSITY.

THE curiosity of our sex is proverbial. Proverbs are generally based
upon experience, and this one, I am ready to admit, is not without a
good foundation to rest upon.

Our sex are curious; at least I am, and we are very apt to judge
others by ourselves. I believe that I have never broken the seal nor
peeped into a letter bearing the name of some other lady; but, then,
I will own to having, on more occasions than one, felt an
exceedingly strong desire to know the contents of certain epistles
in the hands of certain of my friends.

The same feeling I have over and over again observed in my
domestics, and, for this reason, have always been careful how I let
my letters lie temptingly about. One chamber maid in my service,
seemed to have a passion for reading other people's letters. More
than once had I caught her rummaging in my drawers, or with
some of my old letters in her hands; and I could not help remarking
that most of the letters left at the door by the penny post, had, if
they passed to me through her, a crumpled appearance. I suspected
the cause of this, but did not detect my lady, until she had been
some months in my family.

One morning, after breakfast was over, and the children off to
school, I drew on a cap, and went down to sweep out and dust the
parlors. I had not been at work long, when I heard the bell ring.
Presently Mary came tripping down stairs. As she opened the street
door, I heard her say:

"Ah! another letter? Who is it for? Me?"

"No, it is for Mrs. Smith," was answered, in the rougher voice of
the Despatch Post-man.

"Oh." There was a perceptible disappointment in Mary's tone. "What's
the postage?" she asked.

"Paid," said the man.

The door closed, and I h