This morning, I have had rather a painful little adventure.
Though the wind was southerly, and the clouds portended rain, yet Phillis was sure it would blow off. In fact, she had set her mind upon certain cleaning, which I believe she preferred doing in my absence; and as I took a hopeful view of the weather, I went to the week-day morning service at church.
On returning, as usual, in the rear of the little congregation, I was slowly drawling along Church Row, and thinking what a pity it was that such good houses should be so falling out of repair, when down came the rain very heavily. I had just passed Mrs. Ringwood’s, and noticed that the parlour-blind wanted mending, and that Mrs. Ringwood, with a baby in her arms, was idly looking over it. I began to spread my shawl more completely over me, and was putting up my umbrella, when some one from behind called, “Mrs. Cheerlove! Mrs. Cheerlove!”
The boy stopped the donkey, and said, “There’s Mrs. Ringwood a calling of you.”
I looked round, and saw her, without her baby, standing on her door-step, with her light curling hair blowing in the wind, while she eagerly looked after me.
“Do come in, ma’am,” cried she, with great good-nature, and colouring as she spoke. “It is raining quite fast! I am sure you ought not to be out in it.”
The boy, at the same moment, took the matter into his own hands, by turning the donkey round, so that I was before her door the next minute.
“I don’t think it will come to much,” said I, bowing and smiling. “I’m extremely obliged to you. Pray don’t come into the rain.”
“Oh, it won’t hurt me,” said she, now at my side, “and it will hurt you. Do come in till it is over.”