"Not quite full, I hope, for I have a petition to make for a poor maid, the eldest child of Mr. Brown, the vicar of Torton," said Theo. And she proceeded to unfold the matter, saying that the Curate was very poor, with a large family, and this daughter being lame, was not fit for service. "Are they so very poor?" asked Lady Jemima. "They are poorer than they need be, if the wife were a better manager," replied the dean's lady. "But she hath been a waiting-gentlewoman to my Lady Saville, and still sets herself up on her gentility, forsooth, cannot possibly work with her hands, and talks of how she hath come down in the world. The aunt, who is a good plain farmer's wife, with a small army of children, tells me that this maid's lameness hath come, she verily believes, from working beyond her strength to make up her mother's deficiencies. She is her father's greatest comfort, poor man, but he will willingly spare her for the chance of having her recover her health." "Will you send him to see me?" asked Lady Jemima. "I would talk the matter over with him myself, for no disparagement to you, Theo," she added with a smile, "you are one of those softhearted people who think everybody ought to have everything, and as my means are limited, I must make a discrimination, and not use them to encourage idleness or improvidence." Theo smiled in her turn, and admitted that she was easily imposed upon. "But I am learning something, I assure you," said she. "I have found out that all the clean people are not saints and all the dirty ones reprobates, which was the notion I at first set out with." After a little more talk we had dinner with Lady Jemima and the young ladies, and set out on our way home, calling at the house of the curate I have mentioned. Such a house—showing in every corner the results of sluttishness and improvidence. The poor man, into whose study we were shown, sat in a ragged cassock, writing with one hand and holding a sleeping infant on the other arm, while his lame daughter was resting upon a rude couch or settle—a hard resting-place it looked—keeping two more little ones quiet by telling them a story, though her feverish cheeks and bright heavy-lidded eyes showed how much she needed rest. Another girl about twelve was clearing a table of the remains of what certainly looked like a very scanty meal. Theo at once took possession of the children, and distributed some cakes among them, which they devoured in a way that showed their dinner had still left them with an appetite. She had also brought new gowns for the elder girls, at sight of which the somewhat sullen face of the second girl brightened, and she looked really pretty.