On one occasion she had been driven in to Newbury, to collect some “monies” (whether for rent or not I am unable to say) belonging to her master, and that night she went to bed as usual, with the key of the escritoire, in which she had deposited the money, in her ample pockets under her pillow. She was startled, although not alarmed (for nothing could alarm her undaunted spirit) by hearing footsteps on the stairs, and the opening of her bedroom door. A man’s gruff voice was heard at her bedside, and the faint sound of the poor maid in hysterics above stairs, for the burglar had locked in the two other inmates of the cottage, though, alas! there was little help to be expected from either of them. “Now, then,” said the robber, “hand us over that money that you got to-day in Newbury, every penny of it.” She started up in bed, and turning her sightless eyes on the intruder, exclaimed, in her most strident tones: “_No, I won’t, you villain! What’s yer name?_” It may easily be believed that her nocturnal visitor was not communicative in this particular, neither did the courage of the old lady influence his conduct. He went on to prove to her that “he would stand no nonsense,” and when at length she had unwillingly produced the keys in question, he insisted on her accompanying him downstairs, to show him the spot where the treasure lay hid. So up she got, and, guarding against the cold by putting on some of the multifarious petticoats which she always wore, the blind old heroine groped her way downstairs, all the time heaping imprecations on the head of her persecutor, and foretelling for him that retribution he deserved. She had a wonderful knack of finding her way by remembering the positions of the pieces of furniture in her small sitting-room, and Illidge’s prediction came true. The burglar, besides appropriating the money in question, took a fancy to some trinkets in the drawer, and some months—if I mistake not, a year afterwards—one of them was found in a pawnbroker’s shop in Newbury, and identified by a person who had seen it in Illidge’s possession. There was no doubt about it, for it was a mourning ring, with a date and inscription, which rendered the identification conclusive. The pawnbroker remembered the woman who had brought it, who turned out to be an accomplice of the burglar’s, and in this manner he was tracked and convicted. And so ends all the adventures that I can recall of one of the most attached and zealous retainers of which any family could boast. Illidge, like the more celebrated personage with whom I have connected her name, nearly attained her hundredth year, before she departed from this sublunary scene. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VIII OUR HOUSEHOLD