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But Mrs. Brenton did not covet the privilege more than she did, and after a great show of firmness on the subject, declaring to herself and her intimate friend that she never would give up, and that there was no use talkin’ about it, she concluded she would try again, if Mrs. Brenton would stand right at her elbow and tell her the exact quantity of ingredences she must put into each pie.

“I s’pose you calc’late to do the ironing?” she said to Emily, on Saturday morning.

“No, I am sure I don’t,” was Emily’s reply. “I thought you had done it.”

“Well, I havn’t–I expected that you were agoing to do it. Miss Hodges, the woman I lived with before I came here, always did it, and she was the richest and genteelest woman in the place. She used to say there wasn’t that girl on the face of the earth, that she would trust to starch and iron her fine linens and muslins, and laces.”

Emily merely said that she was not in the habit of doing such things herself, and that she should expect her to do them.

Deborah went about her task very unwillingly. She told Emily that she knew she should sp’ile the whole lot, and she proved a true prophetess. The shirt-bosoms and collars bore indisputable evidence that she was not stinted for fuel, the hot flat-iron having left its full impress upon some, while “Charcoal Sketches,” of a kind never dreamed of by Neal, were conspicuous on others. As for the muslins and laces, being of a frailer fabric, they gave way beneath the vigorous treatment to which they were subjected, and exhibited mere wrecks of their former selves. Not a single article was wearable which had passed through the severe ordeal of being starched and ironed by Deborah, and what was still more lamentable, many of them could not even, like an antique painting or statue, be restored.

“This is too bad,” said George, as he contemplated his soiled and scorched linen. “It appears to me, Emily, that you might have seen what the girl was about before she spoiled the whole.”

“How could I,” said Emily, “when she was in the kitchen and I was in the parlour–hem-stitching your linen handkerchiefs? Pedy never needed any overseeing.”

Some linen of a coarser texture which had passed through Pedy’s hands, was obliged to be resorted to on the present occasion, while Emily concealed her chagrin from George on account of the destruction of some Brussels lace, the gift of the same generous uncle who gave her the harp. She silently made up her mind that for the future she would not trust such articles to the unskilful Deborah.

Hitherto George, who probably had recalled to mind what he had said to Emily previous to commencing housekeeping, had never, except in a playful manner, alluded to the ill-dressed food which daily made its appearance on the table. To-day, however, when they returned from church and sat down to dinner, probably owing to being a little sore on the subject of the soiled linen, Emily saw him knit his brows in rather a portentous manner, while, in no very amiable tone of voice, he said–

“It appears to me that this girl don’t understand how to do anything as it ought to be done–not even to boil a piece of corned beef. This is as salt as the ocean, and hard as a flint. If the girl has common sense, I am sure she could do better if you would give her a few directions. I confess that I am tired of eating ill-cooked meat, half-done vegetables, and heavy bread, and of drinking a certain muddy decoction, dignified by the name of coffee.”

“Such food is, of course, no more palatable to me than to you; but I thought, by what I have heard you stay, that you would not be pleased when you came home to dinner to see me with a flushed face and in an unbecoming dress, which must be the case if I undertake to do the principal part of the cooking myself, and to superintend the whole.”