raine; and
I think I shall make you wear rouge, so that you may look a little
cheerful;" or, "Pincott, I can't bear, even for the sake of your
starving parents, that you should tear my hair out of my head in that
manner; and I will thank you to write to them and say that I dispense
with your services." After which sort of speeches, and after keeping her
for an hour trembling over her hair, which the young lady loved to have
combed, as she perused one of her favourite French novels, she would go
to bed at one o'clock, and say, "Pincott, you may kiss me. Good night.
I should like you to have the pink dress ready for the morning." And so
with blessing upon her attendant, she would turn round and go to sleep.

The Muse might lie in bed as long as she chose of a morning, and availed
herself of that privilege; but Pincott had to rise very early indeed to
get her mistress's task done; and had to appear next day with the same
red eyes and the same wan face, which displeased Miss Amory by their
want of gaiety, and caused the mistress to be so angry, because the
servant persisted in being and looking unwell and unhappy. Not that
Blanche ever thought she was a hard mistress. Indeed, she made quite a
friend of Pincott, at times, and wrote some very pretty verses about the
lonely little tiring-maid, whose heart was far away. Our beloved Blanche
was a superior being, and expected to be waited upon as such. And I
do not know whether there are any other ladies in this world who treat
their servants or dependants so, but it may be that there are such, and
that the tyranny which they exercise over their subordinates, and
the pangs which they can manage to inflict with a soft voice, and a
well-bred simper, are as cruel as those which a slave-driver administers
with an oath and a whip.

But Blanche was a Muse--a delicate little creature, quite tremulous with
excitability, whose eyes filled with tears at the smallest emotion;
and who knows, but that it was the very fineness of her feelings which
caused them to be froissed so easily? You crush a butterfly by merely
touching it. Vulgar people have no idea of the sensibility of a Muse.

So little Pincott being occupied all day and night in stitching,
hemming, ripping, combing, ironing, crimping, for her mistress; reading
to her when in bed,--for the girl was mistress of the two languages, and
had a sweet voice and manner--could take no share in Madame Fribsby's
soirees, nor indeed was she mu