"Of course, if she finds us out; but we mustn't _get_ found out. What
is the use of having feet, if you can't scamper with them? Betsey of
course will be too frightened to see who did it, and before anybody
else comes, we shall get out of the way."

The new cook, "Betsey," whom these two little sisters were talking
about, was a widow. Her husband was an industrious, temperate man, a
carpenter by trade. He loved Betsey very much, and they lived in a
snug, comfortable little house, which they hoped to be able to buy some
day, when Tom had earned money enough at his trade.

Betsey made Tom a good wife. If _he_ worked hard in the shop, _she_
worked hard in the house. Everything was just as neat as a new pin. You
might have eaten off her floors, they were scrubbed so white and clean.
There were no finger marks on her doors or windows, no broken panes of
glass, with paper or rags stuffed in, to keep out the air, and her
closets and cupboards would bear looking at, in the brightest sunlight
that ever found its way into a kitchen. Her dishes and tumblers never
stuck to your fingers; her table never had on soiled table-cloths; her
walls were never festooned with cobwebs; her hearth never was littered
with ashes. Well might Tom work cheerfully for _such_ a wife; for he
knew that every penny he saved, and gave her, was put to the best
possible use. It didn't go for tawdry finery, I can tell you; and she
knew how to turn a coat for Tom, or re-line the sleeves, or seat a pair
of pants, as nicely as a tailor.

Tom was a good looking fellow. He had a fine broad chest, and a
straight, well formed figure; a large, clear, black eye, and a fine
Roman nose, besides a set of teeth that would have made a dentist sigh.
The truth was Tom was one of Nature's gentlemen; he always did and said
just the right thing, and made everybody about him feel perfectly
satisfied with the world in general, and himself in particular.

Well, they lived together as contented as two oysters. Tom didn't grit
his teeth when a carriage rolled by with a rich man in it, or when
another man passed him in a finer suit of broadcloth than his own. Not
he. He stepped off to his shop, on the strength of Betsey's nice coffee
and biscuit, as grand as the President. Why not? He owed nobody a cent,
and that's more than many a man can say, who would knock you down as
quick as a flash, if you should intimate he wasn't a _gentleman_.

One fine day, Tom proposed to Betsey to