e by little, as her courage revived, she began to reason with
herself as how 'twas the least likely thing in the world that if Mrs.
Godwin were in England, she should come to the Court unattended and in
her Moorish clothes; and then, seeing the folly of abandoning herself to
a foolish fancy, she rose, washed the tears from her face, and set
herself to find some occupation to distract her thoughts. And what
employment is nearer to her thoughts or dearer to her heart than making
things straight for her husband; so she goes into the next room where he
worked, and falls to washing his brushes, cleaning his paint-board, and
putting all things in order against his return, that he may lose no time
in setting to work at another picture. And at dinner time, finding her
face still disfigured with her late emotions and ashamed of her late
folly, she bids her maid bring a snack to her room, under the pretence
that she feels unwell. This meal she eats, still working in her
husband's room; for one improvement prompting another, she finds plenty
to do there: now bethinking her that the hangings of her own private
room (being handsomer) will look better on these walls, whereas t'others
are more fit for hers, where they are less seen; that this corner looks
naked, and will look better for her little French table standing there,
with a china image atop, and so forth. Thus, then, did she devote her
time till sundown, whereabouts Mrs. Butterby raps at her door to know if
she will have a cup of warm caudle to comfort her, at the same time
telling her that Mr. Hopkins will not sup with her, as he has Captain
Evans for his guest at the lodge.

And now Moll, by that natural succession of extremes which seems to be a
governing law of nature (as the flow the ebb, the calm the storm, day
the night, etc.), was not less elated than she had been depressed in the
early part of the day,--but still, I take it, in a nervous, excitable
condition. And hearing her father, whom she has not seen so long, is
here, a thousand mad projects enter her lively imagination. So, when
Mrs. Butterby, after the refusal of her warm caudle, proposes she shall
bring Madam a tray of victuals, that she may pick something in bed,
Moll, stifling a merry thought, asks, in a feeble voice, what there is
in the larder.

"Why, Madam," says Mrs. Butterby, from the outside, "there's the
partridges you did not eat at breakfast, there's a cold pigeon pasty and
a nice fresh ham, and a