sulted
about Polly, and he told his client the landlady of the "Lamb" wanted a
good active waitress; he thought he could arrange that little affair.

In due course, thanks to this artist, Mary Wells, hitherto known as
Polly Somerset, landed with her boxes at the "Lamb "; and with her
quick foot, her black eyes, and ready tongue soon added to the
popularity of the inn. Richard Bassett, Esq., for one, used to sup
there now and then with his friend Wheeler, and even sleep there after
supper.

By-and-by the vicar of Huntercombe wanted a servant, and offered to
engage Mary Wells.

She thought twice about that. She could neither write nor read, and
therefore was dreadfully dull without company; the bustle of an inn,
and people coming and going, amused her. However, it was a temptation
to be near Richard Bassett; so she accepted at last. Unable to write,
she could not consult him; and she made sure he would be delighted.

But when she got into the village the prudent Mr. Bassett drew in his
horns, and avoided her. She was mortified and very angry. She revenged
herself on her employer; broke double her wages. The vicar had never
been able to convert a smasher; so he parted with her very readily to
Lady Bassett, with a hint that she was rather unfortunate in glass and
china.

In that large house her spirits rose, and, having a hearty manner and a
clapper tongue, she became a general favorite.

One day she met Mr. Bassett in the village, and he seemed delighted at
the sight of her, and begged her to meet him that night at a certain
place where Sir Charles's garden was divided from his own by a ha-ha.
It was a very secluded spot, shut out from view, even in daylight, by
the trees and shrubs and the winding nature of the walk that led to it;
yet it was scarcely a hundred yards from Huntercombe Hall.

Mary Wells came to the tryst, but in no amorous mood. She came merely
to tell Mr. Bassett her mind, viz., that he was a shabby fellow, and
she had had her cry, and didn't care a straw for him now. And she did
tell him so, in a loud voice, and with a flushed cheek.

But he set to work, humbly and patiently, to pacify her; he represented
that, in a small house like the vicarage, every thing is known; he
should have ruined her character if he had not held aloof. "But it is
different now," said he. "You can run out of Huntercombe House, and
meet me here, and nobody be the wiser."

"Not I," said Mary Wells, with a toss. "The wors