“I think I prefer the old type,” said Clare, with a feeling of opposition, which she herself scarcely understood; “one knows what to do with them; and then they are civil, at least. I am going to see some now,” and she turned back suddenly, waving her hand to her companions, and went on past Sarah’s cottage to pay her visits. The people she was going to see were quite of the old type. They had no susceptibilities to _menagér_, no over-delicate feelings to be studied. They were ready to accept all that could be procured, and to ask for more. Clare knew, when she entered these cottages, that she was about to hear a long list of wants, and to have it made apparent to her that the comfort, and health, and happiness of her pensioners was entirely in her hands. It was more flattering than the independence of the stranger, who wanted nothing; but yet the contrast confused the mind of the girl, who had never had anything of the kind made so clearly apparent to her before. One of her old women had an orphan granddaughter too; but her complaints were many of the responsibility this threw upon her, and the trouble she had in keeping her charge in order. “Them young lasses, they eats and they drinks, and they’re never done; when a cup o’ tea would serve me, there’s a cooking and a messing for Lizzy; and out o’ evenings when I just want her; and every penny a going for nonsense. At my time o’ life, Miss, it ain’t bother as one wants; it’s quiet as does best for ou’d folks.” “But she has nobody to take care of her except you,” said Clare, pondering her new lesson. “Eh, Miss! They ben’t good for nothing for taking care o’ young ones ben’t ou’d folks.”