was exceeding glad of having such good news to
write to me; but my thoughts of it run otherwise.

I was struck, as with a blast from heaven, at the reading her letter; I
fell into a fit of trembling from head to foot, and I ran raving about
the room like a mad woman. I had nobody to speak a word to, to give
vent to my passion; nor did I speak a word for a good while, till after
it had almost overcome me. I threw myself on the bed, and cried out,
"Lord, be merciful to me, she has murdered my child!" and with that a
flood of tears burst out, and I cried vehemently for above an hour.

My husband was very happily gone out a-hunting, so that I had the
opportunity of being alone, and to give my passions some vent, by which
I a little recovered myself. But after my crying was over, then I fell
in a new rage at Amy; I called her a thousand devils and monsters and
hard-hearted tigers; I reproached her with her knowing that I abhorred
it, and had let her know it sufficiently, in that I had, at it were,
kicked her out of doors, after so many years' friendship and service,
only for naming it to me.

Well, after some time, my spouse came in from his sport, and I put on
the best looks I could to deceive him; but he did not take so little
notice of me as not to see I had been crying, and that something
troubled me, and he pressed me to tell him. I seemed to bring it out
with reluctance, but told him my backwardness was more because I was
ashamed that such a trifle should have any effect upon me, than for any
weight that was in it; so I told him I had been vexing myself about my
woman Amy's not coming again; that she might have known me better than
not to believe I should have been friends with her again, and the like;
and that, in short, I had lost the best servant by my rashness that ever
woman had.

"Well, well," says he, "if that be all your grief, I hope you will soon
shake it off; I'll warrant you in a little while we shall hear of Mrs.
Amy again." And so it went off for that time. But it did not go off with
me; for I was uneasy and terrified to the last degree, and wanted to get
some farther account of the thing. So I went away to my sure and certain
comforter, the Quaker, and there I had the whole story of it; and the
good innocent Quaker gave me joy of my being rid of such an unsufferable
tormentor.

"Rid of her! Ay," says I, "if I was rid of her fairly and honourably;
but I don't know what Amy may have done. Sure, she h