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In a paroxysm of vexation, I reviled matrimony and Murphy O’Connor, who had stolen our household treasure, and further expressed my griefs, as elder sons are apt to do, by earnest expostulations with the maternal officer on the discouraging state of things; declaring most earnestly, morning, noon, and night, that all was going to ruin, that everything was being spoiled, that nothing was even decent, and that, if things went on so much longer, I should be obliged to go out and board,–by which style of remark I nearly drove that long-suffering woman frantic.

“Do be reasonable, Tom,” said she. “Can I make girls to order? Can I do anything more than try such as apply, when they seem to give promise of success? Delicacy of hand, neatness, nicety of eye, are not things likely to be cultivated in the Irish boarding-houses from which our candidates emerge. What chance have the most of them had to learn anything except the most ordinary rough housework? A trained girl is rare as a nugget of gold amid the sands of the washings; but let us persevere in trying, and one will come at last.”

“Well, I hope, at any rate, you have sent off that Bridget,” I said, in high disdain. “I verily believe, if that girl stays a week longer, I shall have to leave the house.”

“Compose yourself,” said my mother; “Bridget’s bundle is made up, and she is going. I’m sorry for her too, poor thing; for she seemed anxious to keep the place.”

At this moment the doorbell rang. “I presume that’s the new girl whom they have sent round for me to see,” said my mother.

I opened the door, and there in fact stood a girl dressed in a neat-fitting dark calico, with a straw bonnet, simply tied with some dark ribbon, and a veil which concealed her face.

“Is Mrs. Seymour at home?”

“She is.”

“I was told that she wanted a girl.”

“She does; will you walk in?”

I pique myself somewhat on the power of judging character, and there was something about this applicant which inspired hope; so that, before I introduced her into the room, I felt it necessary to enlighten my mother with a little of my wisdom. I therefore whispered in her ear, with the decisive tone of an eldest son, “I think, mother, this one will do; you had better engage her at once.”

“Have you lived out much?” said my mother, commencing the usual inquiries.

“I have not, ma’am. I am but lately come to the city.”

“Are you Irish?”

“No, ma’am; I am American.”

“Have you been accustomed to the care of the table,–silver, glass, and china?”

“I think, ma’am, I understand what is necessary for that.”

All this while the speaker remained standing with her veil down; her answers seemed to be the briefest possible; and yet, notwithstanding the homely plainness of her dress, there was something about her that impressed both my mother and me with an idea of cultivation and refinement above her apparent station,–there was a composure and quiet decision in her manner of speaking which produced the same impression on us both.

“What wages do you expect?” said my mother.

“Whatever you have been accustomed to give to a girl in that place will satisfy me,” she said.

“There is only one thing I would like to ask,” she added, with a slight hesitation and embarrassment of manner; “would it be convenient for me to have a room by myself?”

I nodded to my mother to answer in the affirmative.

The three girls who composed our establishment had usually roomed in one large apartment, but there was a small closet of a room which I had taken for books, fishing-rods, guns, and any miscellaneous property of my own. I mentally turned these out, and devoted the room to the newcomer, whose appearance interested me.

And, as my mother hesitated, I remarked, with the assured tone of master of the house, that “certainly she could have a small room to herself.”