Bet. Ay, sir—and as good as she is pretty. You must know, sir, that this young woman is a stranger from a great way off. She came here quite by accident, and has lived with us above a twelvemonth. I’ll tell your honour all about it if you choose.
Land. Pray do—I am curious to hear it. But first favour me with a draught of your whey.
Bet. I beg your pardon, sir, for not offering it. Run, Mary, and fetch his honour some fresh whey in a clean basin.
[Mary goes.
Land. Now, pray, begin your story.
Bet. Well, sir—As our John was coming from work one evening, he saw at some distance on the road a carrier’s wagon overturned. He ran up to help, and found a poor old gentlewoman lying on the back much hurt, and this girl sitting beside her, crying. My good man, after he had helped in setting the wagon to rights, went to them, and with a good deal of difficulty got the gentlewoman into the wagon again, and walked by the side of it to our house. He called me out and we got something comfortable for her; but she was so ill that she could not bear to be carried farther. So after consulting a while, we took her into the house, and put her to bed. Her head was sadly hurt, and she seemed to grow worse instead of better. We got a doctor to her, and did our best to nurse her, but all would not do, and we soon found she was likely to die. Poor Fanny, her grand-daughter, never left her day or night; and it would have gone to your honour’s heart, to have heard the pitiful moan she made over her. She was the only friend she had in the world, she said; and what would become of her if she were to lose her? Fanny’s father and mother were both dead, and she was going with her grandmother into the north, where the old gentlewoman came from, to live cheap, and to try to find out some relations. Well—to make my story short, in a few days the poor woman died. There was a little more money about her than would serve to pay her doctor and bury her. Fanny was in sad trouble, indeed. I thought she would never have left her grandmother’s grave. She cried and wrung her hands most bitterly. But I tire your honour.
Land. O no! I am much interested in your story.
Bet. We comforted her as well as we could; but all her cry was, “What will become of me? Where must I go? Who will take care of me?” So after a while, said I to John, “Poor creature! my heart grieves for her. Perhaps she would like to stay with us—though she seems to have been brought up in a way of living different from ours, too; but what can she do, left to herself in the wide world!” So my husband agreed that I should ask her. When I mentioned it to her, poor thing! how her countenance altered! “O,” said she, “I wish for nothing so much as to stay and live with you! I am afraid I can do but little to serve you, but indeed I will learn to do my best.” Said I: “Do no more than you like; you are welcome to stay and partake with us as long as you please.” Well, sir! she stayed with us; and set about learning to do all kind of our work with such good-will, and so handily, that she soon became my best helper. And she is so sweet-tempered, and so fond of us and the children, that I love her as well as if she was my own child. She has been well brought up, I am sure. She can read, and write, and work with her needle, a great deal better than we can, and when work is over, she teaches the children. Then she is extraordinarily well-behaved, so as to be admired by all that see her.—So your honour has now the story of our Fanny.
Land. I thank you heartily for it, my good Betty! It does much credit both to you and Fanny. But pray, what is her surname?
Bet. It is—let me see—I think it is Welford.