ouse is even such a one. From
the first I thought her an unusually good servant; after three years of
acquaintance, I find her one of the few women I have known who merit the
term of excellent. She can read and write--that is all. More
instruction would, I am sure, have harmed her, for it would have confused
her natural motives, without supplying any clear ray of mental guidance.
She is fulfilling the offices for which she was born, and that with a
grace of contentment, a joy of conscientiousness, which puts her high
among civilized beings. Her delight is in order and in peace; what
greater praise can be given to any of the children of men?

The other day she told me a story of the days gone by. Her mother, at
the age of twelve, went into domestic service; but on what conditions,
think you? The girl's father, an honest labouring man, _paid_ the person
whose house she entered one shilling a week for her instruction in the
duties she wished to undertake. What a grinning stare would come to the
face of any labourer nowadays, who should be asked to do the like! I no
longer wonder that my housekeeper so little resembles the average of her
kind.

XVII.

A day of almost continuous rain, yet for me a day of delight. I had
breakfasted, and was poring over the map of Devon (how I love a good
map!) to trace an expedition that I have in view, when a knock came at my
door, and Mrs. M. bore in a great brown-paper parcel, which I saw at a
glance must contain books. The order was sent to London a few days ago;
I had not expected to have my books so soon. With throbbing heart I set
the parcel on a clear table; eyed it whilst I mended the fire; then took
my pen-knife, and gravely, deliberately, though with hand that trembled,
began to unpack.

It is a joy to go through booksellers' catalogues, ticking here and there
a possible purchase. Formerly, when I could seldom spare money, I kept
catalogues as much as possible out of sight; now I savour them page by
page, and make a pleasant virtue of the discretion I must needs impose
upon myself. But greater still is the happiness of unpacking volumes
which one has bought without seeing them. I am no hunter of rarities; I
care nothing for first editions and for tall copies; what I buy is
literature, food for the soul of man. The first glimpse of bindings when
the inmost protective wrapper has been folded back! The first scent of
_books_! The first gleam of a gilded titl