y_ find 'emselves I know not whether more of Toyl or Pastime, within
Doors,--washing, brewing, baking, pickling, and preserving; to say Nought
of the Dairy, which supplies us with endless Variety of Country Messes,
such as Father's Soul loveth. 'Tis well we have this Resource, or our
Bill of Fare would be somewhat meagre; for the Butcher kills nothing but
Mutton, except at _Christ-mass_. Then, we make our own Bread, for we now
keep strict Quarantine, the Plague having now so much spread, that there
have e'en been one or two Cases in _Chalfont_. The only One to seek for
Employment has been poor _Anne_, whose great Resources at Home have ever
been Church-going and visiting poor Folk. She can do neither here, for
we keep close, even on the Sabbath; and she can neither read to Father,
take long, lonely Rambles, nor help Mother in her Housewifery. Howbeit,
a Resource hath at length turned up; for the lonely Cot (which is the
only Dwelling within Sight) has become the Refuge of a poor, pious Widow,
whose only Daughter, a Weaver of Gold and Silver Lace, has been thrown
out of Employ by the present Stagnation of all Business. _Anne_ picked
up an Acquaintance with 'em shortly after our coming; and, being by
Nature a Hoarder, in an innocent Way, so as always to have a few
Shillings by her for charitable Uses, when _Mary_ and I have none, she
hath improved her Commerce with _Joan Elliott_ to that Degree, as to get
her to teach her her pretty Business, at the Price of the Contents of her
little Purse. So these two sit harmoniously at their Loom, within
Earshot of Father and me, while he dictates to me his wondrous Poem. We
are nearing the End of it now, and have reached the Reconciliation of
_Adam_ and _Eve_, which, I think, affected him a good deal, and
abstracted his Mind all the Evening; for why, else, should he have so
forgotten himself as to call me sweet _Moll_? . . . _Mary_ lookt up,
thinking he meant her; but he never calls her _Moll_ or _Molly_; and, I
believe, was quite unaware he had done so to me: but it showed the Course
his Mind was taking.

This Morning, I was straying down a Blackthorn Lane, when a blue-eyed,
fresh-coloured young Lady, in a sad-coloured Skirt, and large-flapped
Beaver, without either Feather or Buckle, swept by me on a small white
Palfrey. She held a Bunch of Tiger Lilies in her Hand, the gayety of
which contrasted strangelie enow with her sober Apparell; and I wondered
why a peculiar Class