he saw
in the paring-down of her servant's rations to a working minimum, at
once profit and sport; lastly, being fond of the most trivial gossip,
she had a never-failing topic of discussion with such ladies as could
endure her society.

Bertha, having been accustomed to this domestic turbulence all her life
long, for the most part paid no heed to it. She knew that if the
management of the house were in her hands, instead of her mother's,
things would go much more smoothly, but the mere suggestion of such a
change (ventured once at a moment of acute crisis) had so amazed and
exasperated Mrs. Cross, that Bertha never again looked in that
direction. Yet from time to time a revolt of common sense forced her to
speak, and as the only possible way, if quarrel were to be avoided, she
began her remonstrance on the humorous note. Then when her mother had
been wearying her for half an hour with complaints and lamentations
over the misdoings of one Emma, Bertha as the alternative to throwing
up her hands and rushing out of the house, began laughing to herself,
whereat Mrs. Cross indignantly begged to be informed what there was so
very amusing in a state of affairs which would assuredly bring her to
her grave.

"If only you could see the comical side of it, mother," replied Bertha.
"It really has one, you know. Emma, if only you would be patient with
her, is a well-meaning creature, and she says the funniest things. I
asked her this morning if she didn't think she could find some way of
remembering to put the salt on the table. And she looked at me very
solemnly, and said, 'Indeed, I will, miss. I'll put it into my prayers,
just after 'our daily bread.'"

Mrs. Cross saw nothing in this but profanity. She turned the attack on
Bertha, who, by her soft way of speaking, simply encouraged the
servants, she declared, in negligence and insolence.

"Look at it in this way, mother," replied the girl, as soon as she was
suffered to speak. "To be badly served is bad enough, in itself; why
make it worse by ceaseless talking about it, so leaving ourselves not a
moment of peace and quiet? I'm sure I'd rather put the salt on the
table myself at every meal, and think no more about it, than worry,
worry, worry over the missing salt-cellars from one meal to the next.
Don't you feel, dear mother, that it's shocking waste of life?"

"What nonsense you talk, child! Are we to live in dirt and disorder? Am
I _never_ to correct a servant, or teach h