"Boys! that quite decides me, ma'am. I don't like other folk's servants about my place; but I might have got over that, had the children been girls. But boys—"
"Then I must wish you good-morning," said Aunt Betha. "Can you tell me of any house where children would not be objected to? I live in a house full of children myself, and I find them, as a rule, a deal pleasanter than grown-up people. But of course you must please yourself."
"I look at my furniture, ma'am, and my peace and comfort. I look to the ruin of carpets and chairs, and—"
But Aunt Betha stayed to hear no more, and trotted off on her arduous errand.
In and out of houses went poor Aunt Betha, with alternate hopes and fears. Some were dirty and slovenly: the landladies of these called the children "little dears," and said "they doted on children." Some rooms were too dear; some too small; and as the sharp-sounding clock of St. Luke's struck twelve, Aunt Betha felt tired out and ready to give up. She was standing hopelessly at the corner of Lavender Place, when a pleasant-looking woman, crossing the road, exclaimed with a smile, "Why, if that's not Miss Cox! Dear me, Miss Cox, how are you, ma'am?"
"I am pretty well, Ruth, thank you; but I am tired out. I am looking for lodgings for poor Mr. Arthur Wilton's family, and I can't find any."
"Mr. Arthur Wilton! Poor gentleman. I saw his death in the paper, and thought it must be the doctor's brother. He has left a long family, hasn't he?"
"Yes; that is, shorter than my niece's; but six are enough to provide for when there is nothing left but debts and difficulties."
Ruth was an old married servant of Dr. Wilton's, one of the innumerable young cooks who had been under Miss Cox, and had basely deserted her as soon as she could cook—send up a dinner fit to be eaten—to dress the dinner of the baker's boy who had served 6 Edinburgh Crescent with bread.
"Dear me! I thought Mr. Wilton was a very rich gentleman. I have heard the young ladies talk of the fine country place. How was it?"