ifice, and who had lightened it by
sympathetic companionship. They had cleaned rooms, and made cakes and
puddings, and set hens, and stirred jam, and ironed frocks and laces
together; they had spent hours in pleasant gossip over the many homely
subjects that interested both; their relation had been more that of
mother and daughter than of servant and mistress. Regarding her as
virtually her child, Keziah had been quick to spring to the side of
authority in the matter of the irregular love-affair; the natural
parental impulse was to nip it in the bud. But "Providence" had decided
the issue in this case. And a flirtatious girl was one thing, and a
respectable married woman another. And Keziah was lonely, and felt
neglected and "put upon" when nobody came to talk to her in her
kitchen, or to help her with her cooking and ironing--and particularly
after she had told Deb that it was a shame to bear malice to Miss Rose
now, and Deb had commanded her to mind her own business.

She was suspected of treacherous visits to the house next door; she was
known to have spent Sunday afternoons with Mrs Peter herself. The
iniquity of these proceedings was in the secrecy she observed, or tried
to observe, regarding them. It was she who knew, before anybody else,
when a baby Breen was coming--and if a married woman was a personage to
Keziah, an incipient mother was a being of the highest rank. She had
forgiven Mary everything for the sake of her black-eyed boy; now she
took the news that Rose was what she called "interesting" to Deb, and
demanded that action should be taken upon it, with an air that was
almost truculent. Deb, of course, did not believe in being spoken to,
even by Keziah, in that way.

"Has the muffin boy been?" she inquired, with a steady look.

"It's too soon yet--and I can tell you, Miss Deb, that if it was you in
her place, SHE wouldn't keep it up like this--and at such a time too."

"When the muffin boy comes, Keziah, please pay him the sixpence we owe
him from last week. You will find the money on my writing-table."

"Well, I don't care--I call it a shame not to go to her--"

"Perhaps you would like to go to her yourself?" Deb swiftly changed her
tone.

"I'd like nothing better," the old woman retorted, with spirit, "if you
are agreeable."

"I am perfectly agreeable."

"Well, it was only the other day she said she'd give anything to have
me, if it wasn't for taking me away from you."

"Oh, pray don't cons