lovely hasty pudding I made with my own hands,
in the pot."

"Bring 'em all," says Moll, in the same aching voice; "and I'll pick
what tempts me."

Therewith, she silently slips the bolt back, whips on her nightgown, and
whips into bed.

Presently, up comes Mrs. Butterby, carrying a wax candle, followed by a
couple of maids charged with all the provisions Moll had commanded.
Having permission to enter, the good woman sets down her candle, puts on
her glasses, and, coming to the bedside, says she can see very well by
her poor looks, that her dear mistress has got a disorder of the
biliaries on her, and prays Heaven it may not turn to something worse.

"Nay," says Moll, very faintly, "I shall be well again when I am
relieved of this headache, and if I can only fall asleep,--as I feel
disposed to,--you will see me to-morrow morning in my usual health. I
shan't attempt to rise this evening" ("For mercy's sake, don't," cries
Mrs. Butterby), "and so, I pray you, order that no one shall come near
my room to disturb me" ("I'll see that no one so much as sets a foot on
your stair, Madam, poor dear!" says t'other), "and you will see that all
is closed carefully. And so good-night, mother, and good-night to you,
Jane and Betsy--oh, my poor head!"

With a whispered "Good-night, dear madam," Mrs. Butterby and the maids
leave the room a-tiptoe, closing the door behind them as if 'twere of
gingerbread; and no sooner are they gone than Moll, big with her mad
design, nips out of bed, strips off her nightgown, and finding nothing
more convenient for her purpose, puts the ham, pasty, and partridges in
a clean pillow-slip. This done, she puts on her cloak and hood, and
having with great caution set the door open and seen all safe and quiet
below, she takes up her bag of victuals, blows out the candle, and as
silent as any mouse makes her way to the little private staircase at the
end of the stairs. And now, with less fear of encountering Mrs. Godwin
than Black Bogey, she feels her way down the dark, narrow staircase,
reaches the lower door, unbolts it, and steps out on the path at the
back of the house.

There is still a faint twilight, and this enables her to find her way to
the wicket gate opposite Anne Fitch's cottage. Not a soul is to be seen;
and so, with her hood drawn well over her head, she speeds on, and in
five minutes reaches my house. Here finding the door fastened, she gives
a couple of knocks, and on my opening she ask