"Magdalen," said Mrs. Slingsby, in a tone of profound solemnity, "this is a dreadful occurrence to take place in a house which, I may safely assert, has never yet been tainted with the breath of scandal—at least so long as I have occupied it. Are you sure that your conjecture is right?"
"I would take my salvation oath that it is, ma'am," responded the housekeeper.
"That expression on your part is incorrect, Magdalen," observed Mrs. Slingsby, in a tone of mild reproach. "But I of course believe all you tell me relative to that miserable—degraded girl. Let her be sent from the house this minute, Magdalen—this very minute! Pay her any wages that may be due to her, and inform her that her box shall be sent after her to her parents, with a note acquainting them of the reason for her abrupt discharge."
"She has no parents, ma'am—she is an orphan."
"But she has friends, no doubt?" said Mrs. Slingsby, inquiringly.
"No, ma'am: I took her from the workhouse, on the recommendation of lady—a friend of yours, ma'am—who visits them kind of places on a Sunday, distributing hymn-books."
"Disagreeable as the duty is, it must nevertheless be performed, Magdalen. And that duty, so incumbent upon us, is to turn the lost girl into the street. Pay her the wages——"
"She has nothing to receive, ma'am. I advanced her money to buy herself decent clothes——"
"Then let her go away without any money—since she has none to receive," interrupted Mrs. Slingsby. "To give her a single shilling, were to encourage her in that shameless career of profligacy whereon she has already so far entered."
"Your orders shall be obeyed, ma'am," replied Magdalen; and she withdrew to execute them—for she had a spite against the poor scullery-girl, who had been intriguing with one of this over-particular housekeeper's own lovers.