ten to "a prosy book"--a book, I
forgot to say, was read aloud in the work-room--instead of gossiping and
having a little fun; and to walk out on Sundays under the wing of that
old, hideous harridan, Mrs. Sterling, instead of going with her
companions where she pleased. In short, it was worse "than negro
slavery," but there was no help for it--there she was, and there she was
obliged to stay.

Well, and did she improve under this good discipline? Was she any the
better for it? I am sorry to say very little.

There are subjects that are almost unimprovable. She was, by nature, a
poor, shallow, weedy thing; her education had been the worst possible
for her. Evil habits, false views, low aims, had been imbibed, and not
one fault corrected while young; and self-experience, which rectifies in
most so much that is wrong, seemed to do nothing for her. There was no
substance to work upon. Mrs. Fisher was soon heartily tired of her, and
could have regretted her complaisance to Mrs. Danvers' wishes in
receiving her against her judgment; but she was too good to send her
away. She laughed, and accepted her as a penance for her sins, she
said--as a thorn in the flesh--and she let the thorn rankle there. She
remembered her honored Fisher, and the scene by the bed-side of poor
Saunders. She looked upon the endurance of this plague as a fresh
offering to the adored memory.

She bore this infliction like a martyr for a long time; at last a smart
young tailor fell in love with Myra at church--a place where he had been
better employed thinking of other things. And so I believe he thought
after he had married her, in spite of the white dress and silk bonnet,
and the reticule with pink ribbons, and the bride's pocket-money, which
Mrs. Fisher bestowed with more pleasure and alacrity than even she had
been known to do upon many a worthier subject.

CHAPTER VIII.

"Yet once more, oh, ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me--"

MILTON'S _Lycidas_.

I must beg of you to slip over a portion of time, and to suppose about
two years passed over our heads, and we return to Lettice, who has
passed that period at General Melwyn's.

So useful, so cheerful, so thoroughly good, so since