“That was a wonder, then,” said Phillis, “for they mostly come right away over that hill, to and from the Fox’s Hole.” “Stay a minute, Phillis, and I will explain to you why I never was afraid.” “Dear me! and I’ve been awaiting and awaiting all this time,” cried Phillis, “to baste the chicken! I only stepped away from it for a moment, to give you your medicine!” “Go, baste the chicken, then, Phillis. I beg your pardon for detaining you. I forgot how many things you have to do, and to think of. Go, Phillis, and baste the chicken.” This is just the way she goes on from day to day. It is certainly very discouraging. An invalid finds it particularly hard to be without a sympathizer; or, at any rate, a companion that can understand one. As to calling me “ma’am,” she does not—and will not—once a week. But a Norway deal won’t take the polish of mahogany; and a rough, stout, country servant, will not convert into a Mrs. Flounce or a Mrs. Mincing. It is surprising what work she can get through—what weights she can lift. I am sure she could lift _me_. * * * * * The way I came to have Phillis was this. My nice maid, Hannah, married; and Jane, her successor, did not suit me at all. My energetic neighbour, Miss Burt, who is almost too bustling and busy for her friends, came in one day when I was very ill, and told me she had found me a “sterling creature,” who would suit me exactly. I had never empowered her to look out. And when I heard that this sterling creature had only lived in a farm, and afterwards with an old single gentleman, I did not feel very desirous to enter into treaty with her. Miss Burt, however, told me she had told her “there could be no harm in calling,” in which I did not quite coincide; and she enlarged so much on her fidelity, sobriety, honesty, cleanliness, and general proficiency, that I was somewhat overpowered, and agreed to see the young person when she called, if I were well enough. “Young! oh, she won’t see thirty again!” cried Miss Burt, as she swung out of the room; and indeed I believe several more years had been numbered by this “daughter of the plough.” But Phillis is exceeding sensitive on the subject. “My age is my own,” says she, shortly; “my age, and my name.” The latter, however, she told me one day, in an uncommon fit of good humour, had been given her by her father because it was in a favourite old song of his. “And when parson,” pursued Phillis, “objected that it wasn’t a _Christian_ name, father said he should like to know whose business it was to choose the name, his or the parson’s. So there,” added Phillis, triumphantly, “I fancy father had the best on’t!” I thought of Crabbe: “‘Why Lonicera wilt thou name thy child?’ I asked the gardener’s wife, in accents mild. ‘We have a right,’ replied the sturdy dame: And Lonicera was the infant’s name.”