hurch of St. Clement
Danes, in London, on the 7th of April, 1750. And then came a copy of the
marriage certificate, and then a statement how, believing that deceased
had left no 'will' making any disposition of his property, or naming an
executor, she applied to the Court of Prerogative for letters of
administration to the deceased, which letters would be granted in a few
days; and in the meantime the bereaved lady would remain in possession
of the house and chattels of her late husband.

All this, of course, was so much 'Hebrew-Greek,' as honest Father Roach
was wont to phrase it, to the scared women. But M. M.--[Greek: nykti
eoikost]--fixing them both with her cold and terrible gaze, said quite
intelligibly--

'What's your name?'

'Moggy Sullivan, if you please, Ma'am.'

'And what's yours?'

'Lizabet--Betty they call me--Madam; Lizabet Burke, if you please,
Madam.'

'Well, then, Moggy Sullivan and Elizabeth Burke, harkee both, while I
tell you a thing. I'm mistress here by law, as you've just heard, and
you're my servants; and if you so much as wind the jack or move a
tea-cup, except as I tell you, I'll find a way to punish you; and if I
miss to the value of a pin's head, I'll indict you for a felony, and
have you whipped and burnt in the hand--you know what that means. And
now, where's Mistress Sarah Harty? for she must pack and away.'

'Oh! Ma'am, jewel, the poor misthress.'

'_I'm_ the mistress, slut.'

'Ma'am, dear, she's very bad.'

'_Where_ is she?'

'In her room, Ma'am,' answered Betty, with blubbered cheeks.

'Where are you going, minx?' cried M. M., with a terrible voice and look,
and striding toward the door, from which Moggy was about to escape.

Now, Moggy was a sort of heroine, not in the vain matter of beauty, for
she had high cheek bones, a snub nose, and her figure had no more waist,
or other feminine undulations, than the clock in the hall; but like that
useful piece of furniture, presented an oblong parallelogram, unassisted
by art; for, except on gala days, these homely maidens never sported
hoops. But she was, nevertheless, a heroine of the Amazonian species.
She tripped up Pat Morgan, and laid that athlete suddenly on his back,
upon the grass plot before the hall door, to his eternal disgrace, when
he 'offered' to kiss her, while the fiddler and tambourine-man were
playing. She used to wring big boys by the ears; overawe fishwives with
her voluble invective; put dangerous dogs to