ll-in-all with them, poor things!
There is seldom one of them but has her love cares, and love secrets;
her doubts, and hopes, and fears, equal to those of any heroine of
romance, and ten times as sincere. And then, too, there is her secret
hoard of love documents;--the broken sixpence, the gilded brooch, the
lock of hair, the unintelligible love scrawl, all treasured up in her
box of Sunday finery, for private contemplation.

How many crosses and trials is she exposed to from some lynx-eyed
dame, or staid old vestal of a mistress, who keeps a dragon watch over
her virtue, and scouts the lover from the door! But then, how sweet
are the little love scenes, snatched at distant intervals of holiday,
and fondly dwelt on through many a long day of household labour and
confinement! If in the country, it is the dance at the fair or wake,
the interview in the church-yard after service, or the evening stroll
in the green lane. If in town, it is perhaps merely a stolen moment of
delicious talk between the bars of the area, fearful every instant of
being seen; and then, how lightly will the simple creature carol all
day afterwards at her labour!

Poor baggage! after all her crosses and difficulties, when she
marries, what is it but to exchange a life of comparative ease and
comfort, for one of toil and uncertainty? Perhaps, too, the lover for
whom in the fondness of her nature she has committed herself to
fortune's freaks, turns out a worthless churl, the dissolute,
hard-hearted husband of low life; who, taking to the ale-house, leaves
her to a cheerless home, to labour, penury, and child-bearing.

When I see poor Phoebe going about with drooping eye, and her head
hanging "all o' one side," I cannot help calling to mind the pathetic
little picture drawn by Desdemona:--

My mother had a maid, called Barbara;
She was in love; and he she loved proved mad,
And did forsake her; she had a song of willow,
An old thing 'twas; but it express'd her fortune,
And she died singing it.

I hope, however, that a better lot is in reserve for Phoebe Wilkins,
and that she may yet "rule the roast," in the ancient empire of the
Tibbets! She is not fit to battle with hard hearts or hard times. She
was, I am told, the pet of her poor mother, who was proud of the
beauty of her child, and brought her up more tenderly than a village
girl ought to be; and ever since she has been left an orphan, the good
ladies at the Hall have completed the