by that very night's post, "with her
humble duty to Mrs. Bute Crawley and the family at the Rectory, and Sir
Pitt has been and proposed for to marry Miss Sharp, wherein she has
refused him, to the wonder of all."

The two ladies in the dining-room (where worthy Miss Briggs was
delighted to be admitted once more to confidential conversation with
her patroness) wondered to their hearts' content at Sir Pitt's offer,
and Rebecca's refusal; Briggs very acutely suggesting that there must
have been some obstacle in the shape of a previous attachment,
otherwise no young woman in her senses would ever have refused so
advantageous a proposal.

"You would have accepted it yourself, wouldn't you, Briggs?" Miss
Crawley said, kindly.

"Would it not be a privilege to be Miss Crawley's sister?" Briggs
replied, with meek evasion.

"Well, Becky would have made a good Lady Crawley, after all," Miss
Crawley remarked (who was mollified by the girl's refusal, and very
liberal and generous now there was no call for her sacrifices). "She
has brains in plenty (much more wit in her little finger than you have,
my poor dear Briggs, in all your head). Her manners are excellent, now
I have formed her. She is a Montmorency, Briggs, and blood is
something, though I despise it for my part; and she would have held her
own amongst those pompous stupid Hampshire people much better than that
unfortunate ironmonger's daughter."

Briggs coincided as usual, and the "previous attachment" was then
discussed in conjectures. "You poor friendless creatures are always
having some foolish tendre," Miss Crawley said. "You yourself, you
know, were in love with a writing-master (don't cry, Briggs--you're
always crying, and it won't bring him to life again), and I suppose
this unfortunate Becky has been silly and sentimental too--some
apothecary, or house-steward, or painter, or young curate, or something
of that sort."

"Poor thing! poor thing!" says Briggs (who was thinking of twenty-four
years back, and that hectic young writing-master whose lock of yellow
hair, and whose letters, beautiful in their illegibility, she cherished
in her old desk upstairs). "Poor thing, poor thing!" says Briggs.
Once more she was a fresh-cheeked lass of eighteen; she was at evening
church, and the hectic writing-master and she were quavering out of the
same psalm-book.

"After such conduct on Rebecca's part," Miss Crawley said
enthusiastically, "our family should do somet