“If the master gets a fit,” she continued, turning to the widow, “it will be your fault--keeping him without bit or sup--here, take the broth, it ain’t _pison_, and master’s no ways proud; I wish he was. If you can’t take your broth here comfortably, come with me to the kitchen.” Holding the cup in one hand, and leading the more than half-blind sempstress with the other, she conducted her down the narrow, dark stairs, as carefully as a mother would lead a child, but before she had seated her by the fire, the bell rang. “I rang for you,” said her master, “knowing that your heart and words do not always go together--” “Then I tell lies; thank ye sir,” she said, courtesying. “No, only I wish you to bear in mind that Richard’s mother is in a very low, nervous state.” “How can any one passing through this valley o’ tears be any thing else?” interrupted the incorrigible woman. Her master seemed as though he heard her not. “And if you speak to her in your usual grumpy, disagreeable manner”--she courtesied more deeply than before--“you add to her misery. I am sure your natural kindness of heart will tell you how cruel that would be.” “Putting live worms on fishing-hooks, or roasting live cockles would be nothing to it,” observed Matty. Now as the bookseller had a piscatorial weakness, was, moreover, fond of roast cockles, and had recently complained that Matty had forgotten his taste--this was a very hard hit; he looked discomforted, upon which Martha rejoiced. He was by no means ready-witted--but he was occasionally readily angered--and replied to the sarcasm with a bitter oath, producing an effect directly contrary to what he intended. Martha quitted the dusty room, as if suffocated by satisfaction, and went grumbling and tittering down stairs. “It was a Lucky Penny, sure enough,” she said, “that brought my master and your son together.” “God bless him!” “Which him?” “Both, mistress; we hope he will bless what we love best in the world.” “Ay, indeed, true for you. I heard tell of a man once who was hung through a ‘Lucky Penny.’” The widow pushed away the unfinished cup of broth. “And of another, who made his fortune by one--just as Richard will,” added Matty, relenting. And yet, despite this and her other sarcasms, it was curious to see how Martha struggled to keep in her bitter words; when she looked at the widow’s shrunk and trembling form, and wasted, though still beautiful features, her better nature triumphed; but if her eyes were fixed upon her kitchen deities, she became sharp and acid immediately. Had she moved in a higher grade of society, with her peculiar talent, she might have been “That dangerous thing, a female wit;”