elf the silent and unsuspected supervision of the harness-room,
where, when she found any part of the riding-equipments neglected, she
would draw a pair of housemaid's gloves on her pretty hands, and polish
away like a horse-boy.

Godfrey had begun to remark how long it was since he had found anything
unfit, and to wonder at the improvement somewhere in the establishment,
when, going hastily one morning, some months before the date of my
narrative, into the harness-room to get a saddle, he came upon Letty,
who had imagined him afield with the men: she was energetic upon a
stirrup with a chain-polisher. He started back in amazement, but she
only looked up and smiled.

"I shall have done in a moment, Cousin Godfrey," she said, and polished
away harder than before.

"But, Letty! I can't allow you to do things like that. What on earth
put it in your head? Work like that is only for horny hands."

"Your hands ain't horny, Cousin Godfrey. They may be a little harder
than mine--they wouldn't be much good if they weren't--but they're no
fitter by nature to clean stirrups. Is it for me to sit with mine in my
lap, and yours at this? I know better."

"Why shouldn't I clean my own harness, Letty, if I like?" said Godfrey,
who could not help feeling pleased as well as annoyed; in this one
moment Letty had come miles nearer him.

"Oh, surely! if you like, Cousin Godfrey," she answered; "but do you
like?"

"Better than to see you doing it."

"But not better than I like to do it; that I am sure of. It is hands
that write poetry that are not fit for work like this."

"How do you know I write poetry?" asked Godfrey, displeased, for she
touched here a sensitive spot.

"Oh, don't be angry with me!" she said, letting the stirrup fall on the
floor, and clasping her great wash-leather gloves together; "I couldn't
help seeing it was poetry, for it lay on the table when I went to do
your room."

"Do my room, Letty! Does my mother--?"

"She doesn't want to make a fine lady of me, and I shouldn't like it if
she did. I have no head, but I have pretty good hands. Of course,
Cousin Godfrey, I didn't read a word of the poetry. I daredn't do that,
however much I might have wished."

A childlike simplicity looked out of the clear eyes and sounded in the
swift words of the maiden; and, had Godfrey's heart been as hard as the
stirrup she had dropped, it could not but be touched by her devotion.
He was at the same time not a little puzzle