pect of getting rid of him on
any terms. She belonged to a class who seldom find the golden mean in
money matters, being either exceedingly close and saving, or else
lavish either on themselves or other people. Good old Jane had never
succeeded in saving; all her halfpence went to the beggars, and all her
silver melted into halfpence, or into little presents; and on the
receipt of her wages, she always rushed on to the shop like a child
with a new shilling. Reading had given Charlotte a few theories on the
subject, but her practice had not gone far. She always meant to put
into the savings' bank; but hiring books, and daintiness, though not
finery, in dress, had prevented her means from ever amounting to a sum,
in her opinion, worth securing. The spirit of economy in the household
had so far infected her that she had, in spite of her small wages, more
in hand than ever before, and when she found what Mr. Delaford wanted,
a strange mixture of feelings actuated her. She pitied the change in
his fortunes; she could not but be softened by his flattering
sayings,--she could not bear that he should not have another chance of
retrieving his character--she knew she had trifled unjustifiably with
his feelings, if he had any,--and she had a sense of being in fault.
And so the little maiden ran upstairs, peeped into her red-leather
work-box, pulled out her bead-purse, and extracted therefrom three
bright gold sovereigns, and ran downstairs again, trembling at her own
venturesomeness, afraid that their voices might be heard. She put the
whole before Delaford, saying--

'There--that is all that lays in my power. Don't mention it, pray.
Now, please go, and a happy journey to you.'

How she wished his acknowledgments and faithful promises were over! He
did hint something about refreshment, bread-and-cheese and beer, fare
which he used to despise as 'decidedly low,' but Charlotte was obdurate
here, and at last he took his leave. There stood the poor, foolish,
generous little thing, raking out the last embers of the kitchen fire,
conscious that she had probably done the silliest action of her life,
very much ashamed, and afraid of any one knowing it; and yet strangely
light of heart, as if she had done something to atone for the past
permission that she had granted him to play with her vanity.

'Some day she might tell Tom all about it, and she did not think he
would be angry, for he knew what it was to have nowhere to go, an