is errand, evidently in not the
most amiable mood in the world. It was soon ascertained that Nancy
couldn't come.

"Why can't she come?" enquired my wife.

"She says she's doing some sewing for herself, and can't go out this
week," replied John.

"Go and tell her that she must come. That my house is upside down,
and both the girls are sick."

But Nancy was in no mood to comply. John brought back another
negative.

"Go and say to her, John, that I will not take no for an answer:
that she must come. I will give her a dollar a day."

This liberal offer of a dollar a day was effective. Nancy came and
went, to work on the next morning. Of course, Ann did not come back;
and as it was Hannah's last day, she felt privileged to have more
headache than was consistent with cleaning paint or scrubbing
floors. The work went on, therefore, very slowly.

Saturday night found us without cook or chamber-maid, and with only
two rooms in order in the whole house, viz. our chambers on the
second story. By great persuasion, Nancy was induced to stay during
Sunday and cook for us.

An advertisement in the newspaper on Monday morning, brought us a
couple of raw Irish girls, who were taken as better than nobody at
all. With these new recruits, Mrs. Sunderland set about getting
"things to right." Nancy plodded on, so well pleased with her wages,
that she continued to get the work of one day lengthened out into
two, and so managed to get a week's job.

For the whole of another precious week we were in confusion.

"How do your new girls get along?" I asked of my wife, upon whose
face I had not seen a smile for ten days.

"Don't name them, Mr. Sunderland! They're not worth the powder it
would take to shoot them. Lazy, ignorant, dirty, good-for-nothing
creatures. I wouldn't give them house-room."

"I'm sorry to learn that. What will you do?" I said.

"Dear knows! I was so well suited in Ann and Hannah, and, to think
that they should have served me so! I wouldn't have believed it of
them. But they are all as destitute of feeling and principle as they
can be. And John continues as sulky as a bear. He pretended to shake
the carpets but you might get a wheelbarrow-load of dirt out of
them. I told him so, and the impudent follow replied that he didn't
know any thing about shaking carpets; and that it wasn't the
waiter's place, any how."

"He did?"

"Yes, he did. I was on the eve of ordering him to leave the house."

"I'll save you