"Here is your supper, and a great deal better than you deserve!" said she, in her provoking taunting tone—old fool that I am, the very remembrance makes my blood boil. "Here is a fine end to your airs, forsooth; a country wench to be set up for a lady!" The words were not out of her mouth before she received a stinging box on each ear from the hands of my aunt, who had followed her in time to hear her words. "Take that—and that—for thy impudence!" said my aunt, repeating the application. "And let me hear you beg my niece's pardon directly or you leave the house this hour. Country wench, indeed!" And again my aunt's hand emphasized her remarks on Betty's cheek. * "I beg your pardon, mistress!" sobbed Betty. "That is well. But why are you here at all? I bade Sambo bring the tray, and where are the manchets I laid upon it." "Guess dat Betty eat 'em herself!" said Sambo, who stood thoroughly enjoying Betty's disgrace, for they were old enemies. "I just went out to bring Missy Lovely—" that was his version of my name—"a flower from her own bed, and, see here, missy, what I find." As he spoke, he held up a pair of scissors which we both know to be Betty's. * Much greater ladies than Mrs. Holland beat their maids till long after this time. See Pepy's diary. "Where did you find these?" asked my aunt. "Sticking in the dirt in Missy Lovely garden," answered the negro. "I tell you, Missy Holland, dat gal a deep one." "Hush, Sambo, you forget yourself!" said my aunt, smiling. "Go down and ask the cook for one of the new baked saffron cakes, and bring it up. As for you, Betty, I shall watch you, and woe be to you if you have spoken falsely, or if I hear you use another impertinent word. Go, now, take your besom and sweep every bit of dust from the summer-house and the paved walks. Finish the work before you leave it, and let me see it done nicely, or I will lay one of the besom twigs about your shoulders." I don't think my aunt was one bit sorry to have a legitimate cause for falling upon Betty. When we were alone together, she sat down in a great chair, and drawing me to her, spite of my resistance, she prayed me most kindly and gently to tell her the whole truth. "What is the use, aunt?" I asked, not so much sullenly as hopelessly. "I have told the truth already, and nobody will believe me. You credit Betty, though you know she tells lies, and I have never told a lie since I came into the house. And even if you do, my uncle will not. I thought he was the best man in the world, and now I never can think him good any more!" "You know, Loveday, no one would have thought of such a thing if you had not been naughty before!" said my aunt, gently. "Have I not always been good to you?" "Yes, Aunt Joyce." "And yet, because I gave you a just reproof for carelessness, you answered me pertly, and then refused to make amends, as is every Christian person's duty, whether they be young or old. Was that right?"