This morning I had been sitting a long time with my pen in my hand, thinking what this chapter ought to be about,—that is, what part of my own history, or of that of my neighbors interwoven therewith, I ought to take up next,—when my third child, my little Cecilia, aged five, came into the room, and said,—
"Mamma, there's a poor man at the door, and Jemima won't give him any thing."
"Quite right, my dear. We must give what we can to people we know. We are sure then that it is not wasted."
"But he's so very poor, mamma!"
"How do you know that?"
"Poor man! he has only three children. I heard him tell Jemima. He was so sorry! And I'm very sorry, too."
"But don't you know you mustn't go to the door when any one is talking to
Jemima?" I said.
"Yes, mamma. I didn't go to the door: I stood in the hall and peeped."
"But you mustn't even stand in the hall," I said. "Mind that."
This was, perhaps, rather an oppressive reading of a proper enough rule; but I had a very special reason for it, involving an important event in my story, which occurred about two years after what I have last set down.