'Why, isn't it very late?' asked the child.
'Late? I should think it is late,' said the poor little maid; 'it's always late when I come to bed. I have to wash the pots up after all the others has gone upstairs; ay! but my back does ache to-night! Bless you! I've been upstairs and downstairs all day long.'
'Who are you?' said Rosalie.
'I'm kitchen-maid here,' said the girl; 'I sleep in the attic next you.
What did you come to bed so soon for?'
'I wanted to be by myself,' said Rosalie; 'there was such a noise downstairs.'
'La! do you call that a noise? said the girl; 'it's nothing to what there is sometimes; I thought they were pretty peaceable to-night.'
'Do you like being here?' asked the child.
'Like it?' said the girl. 'Bless you! did you say like it? I hate it; I wish I could die. It's nothing but work, work, scold, scold, from morning till night.'
'Poor thing!' said Rosalie. 'What is your name?'
'Betsey Ann,' said the girl, with a laugh; 'it isn't a very pretty name, is it?'