d her last night in the kitchen writing a
letter for the cook, and the other day she was sitting in her room
trimming a bonnet for Katy; and her opinion seems to be law in the
kitchen. She seldom sits there, and spends most of her leisure in her
own room, which is as tidy as a bee's cell."

"What is she doing there?"

"Reading, sewing, and writing, as far as I can see. There are a few
books, and a portfolio, and a small inkstand there,--and a neat little
work-basket. She is very nice with her needle, and obliging in putting
her talents to the service of the other girls; but towards me she is
the most perfectly silent and reserved being that one can conceive. I
can't make conversation with her; she keeps me off by a most rigid
respectfulness of demeanor which seems to say that she wants nothing
from me but my orders. I feel that I could no more ask her a question
about her private affairs, than I could ask one of Mrs. McGregor in
the next street. But then it is a comfort to have some one so entirely
trustworthy as she is in charge of all the nice little articles which
require attention and delicate handling. She is the only girl I ever
had whom I could trust to arrange a parlor and a table without any
looking after. Her eye and hand, and her ideas, are certainly those of
a lady, whatever her position may have been."

In time our Mary became quite a family institution for us, seeming to
fill a thousand little places in the domestic arrangement where a hand
or an eye was needed. She was deft at mending glass and china, and
equally so at mending all sorts of household things. She darned the
napkins and tablecloths in a way that excited my mother's admiration,
and was always so obliging and ready to offer her services that, in
time, a resort to Mary's work-basket and ever ready needle became the
most natural thing in the world to all of us. She seemed to have no
acquaintance in the city, never went out visiting, received no
letters,--in short, seemed to live a completely isolated life, and to
dwell in her own thoughts in her own solitary little room.

By that talent for systematic arrangement which she possessed, she
secured for herself a good many hours to spend there. My mother,
seeing her taste for reading, offered her the use of our books; and
one volume after another spent its quiet week or fortnight in her
room, and returned to our shelves in due time. They were mostly works
of solid information,--history, travels,