"Tim, I'm rayther dry to-day, Timothy," said Mr. Chancey, addressing the functionary, who shambled up to him more than half asleep; "what will you recommend, Timothy—what do you think of a pot of light ale?"
"Pint or quart?" inquired Tim shortly.
"Well, we'll say a pint to begin with, Timothy," said Chancey, meekly; "and do you see, Timothy, if Miss Flora Guy is on the tap; I wish she would bring it to me herself—do you mind, Timothy?"
Tim nodded and departed, and in a few minutes a brisk step was heard, and a neat, good-humoured looking wench approached Mr. Chancey, and planted a pint pot of ale before him.
"Well, my little girl," said Chancey, with the quiet dignity of a patron, "would you like to get a fine situation in a baronet's family, my dear; to be own maid to a baronet's sister, where they eat off of silver every day in the week, and have more money than you or I could count in a twelve-month?"
"Where's the good of liking it, Mr. Chancey?" replied the girl, laughing; "it's time enough to be thinking of it when I get the offer."
"Well, you have the offer this minute, my little girl," rejoined Chancey; "I have an elegant place for you—upon my conscience I have—up at Morley Court, with Sir Henry Ashwoode; he's a baronet, dear, and you're to be own maid to Miss Mary Ashwoode."
"It can't be the truth you're telling me," said the girl, in unfeigned amazement.
"I declare to G—d, and upon my soul, it is the plain truth," drawled Chancey; "Sir Henry Ashwoode, the baronet, asked me to recommend a tidy, sprightly little girl, to be own maid to his elegant, fine sister, and I recommended you—I declare to G—d but I did, and I come in to-day from the baronet's house to hire you, so I did."
"Well, an' is it in airnest you are?" said the girl.