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always been kept locked) open slowly, and give passage to the form
of Grace Poole, in prim cap, white apron, and handkerchief; when I
watched her glide along the gallery, her quiet tread muffled in a list
slipper; when I saw her look into the bustling, topsy-turvy bedrooms,-
just say a word, perhaps, to the charwoman about the proper way to
polish a grate, or clean a marble mantelpiece, or take stains from
papered walls, and then pass on. She would thus descend to the kitchen
once a day, eat her dinner, smoke a moderate pipe on the hearth, and
go back, carrying her pot of porter with her, for her private
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solace, in her own gloomy, upper haunt. Only one hour in the
twenty-four did she pass with her fellow-servants below; all the
rest of her time was spent in some low-ceiled, oaken chamber of the
second storey: there she sat and sewed- and probably laughed
drearily to herself,- as companionless as a prisoner in his dungeon.
The strangest thing of all was, that not a soul in the house,
except me, noticed her habits, or seemed to marvel at them: no one
discussed her position or employment; no one pitied her solitude or
isolation. I once, indeed, overheard part of a dialogue between Leah
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