Salome. Marshall Emma

do anything by halves. She had promised to set forth early the next day to "hunt for lodgings," and she did not shrink from her task. She was up earlier than usual, that everything might be in order and her daily routine gone through in good time. First there was Guy to be washed and dressed; and his breakfast, with his two little sisters, Maude and Hilda, – Edith breakfasting in the dining-room with her elders. Then came the visit to the kitchen, and Mrs. Wilton's orders and counter-orders to convey to the young servant who cooked under Aunt Betha's supervision. There were the daily accounts to balance, and the daily arrangements to make; and last, not least, the daily burden of others to be borne. How nobly and uncomplainingly Aunt Betha bore this burden I have no words to tell you. She had gone through deep trials in her young days, and had been the useful sister to Mrs. Wilton's mother. Then when that sister died, and dying said, "You will have a home with Anna; don't give her up, she will want help," Aunt Betha transferred her faithful service from the mother to the daughter. She was too poor to live without earning her own living, and she chose to do this by the position in Dr. Wilton's house in which we find her.

      Dear Aunt Betha! She was plain, and short, and very old-fashioned in her dress. "I hear too much about dress in this house," she would say, "to care much about my own." And black silk for Sundays, and a black merino or alpaca for week-days, made short and full, was her unvarying costume. Aunt Betha was scrupulously neat and clean, and her caps, tied with mauve ribbon under her chin, were always fresh and bright. So were the large collar and cuffs which finished her "afternoon dress;" though when she was busy about the house in the morning she dispensed with the cuffs, and wore a large apron and holland sleeves over her gown.

      Mrs. Wilton had that dislike to trouble which can hardly be called indolence; for she was active in her habits, and could go through a good deal of fatigue without complaining. She would walk with Louise to a house at some distance, if the carriage was not available, rather than miss an afternoon party. She would give herself any amount of trouble about one of her husband's patients who she thought belonged to a good family. She would plan and contrive for Louise and Kate's dress and amusement; and her own appearance was singularly youthful and her dress faultless; and all this was not effected without much pain and trouble. But all the daily routine of household duties which did not bring any especial honour with them she disliked. Drudgery could be as well done by Aunt Betha as by her. Why should she be a drudge? "Aunt Betha was made to be useful, and she enjoys it. Dear old woman! We give her a comfortable home, and she is happy. Nothing could fit in better."

      "I am not to exceed two pounds a week, Anna?" Aunt Betha asked, as she put her head into the dining-room, where Mrs. Wilton and Louise were lingering over breakfast and complaining that Digby was so late.

      "Oh, about the lodgings!" exclaimed Mrs. Wilton. "Are you going now, dear?" (Mrs. Wilton often called Aunt Betha "dear.") "I will go up to Guy, then."

      "Susan is with him. He is better this morning. Good-bye, – I have no time to lose."

      "Very well. Take a cab if you are very tired. Certainly not more than two pounds a week for the lodgings; but less will be better."

      Aunt Betha closed the door, and was soon on her way, her quick, light footsteps growing faint and fainter as she went along the smooth pavement of Edinburgh Crescent. She had a message at the green-grocer's and an order at the butcher's to leave as she passed the shops which supplied the wants of Roxburgh; and then she turned away from what might be called the West End of Roxburgh to the neighbourhood of St. Luke's Church. Here there was a substratum of small villas and long, narrow streets, which were a long way from the crescents and terraces of the gay town to which so many people resorted for health and pleasure. The college at Roxburgh stood a little apart from crescents and small streets, and a large number of well-built houses clustered around it, where the families of boys who attended the college mostly lived. In days gone by there had been a mineral spa at Roxburgh, which had proved the starting-point of the large fashionable watering-place of these later times. But "the spa" had declined in popularity, and the old pump-room was in a forlorn state of decay and desolation. It had given Roxburgh its fame; and now, being out of repute, was cast aside and renounced.

      The part of the town towards which Aunt Betha directed her efforts lay below the deserted spa, and was nearer the large, smoky town of Harstone, which was scarcely two miles from Roxburgh, where a busy life of trade and commerce went on in the valley, apart from the life of pleasure on the hill above. A cloud of smoke lay in the valley above Harstone, and the river fogs crept up on this side of Roxburgh, laden with the smut and breath of the chimneys, in late autumn and winter; but on this bright August morning, the towers and spires of the Harstone churches looked picturesque in the soft, gray mist which lay over them and the tall masts of the ships in the docks.

      Aunt Betha did not, however, turn her eyes to the valley. She was too much intent on scanning the rows of small houses with "Apartments," "Furnished Apartments," printed on boards in the windows.

      "Number 3 Lavender Place. That is a nice bow window, and white curtains. I'll try there." Aunt Betha rang the bell, and did not fail to notice "that you might see your face in the brass knob of the handle." A very neat woman came to the door, and in answer to her inquiries said —

      "Yes, I have apartments to let, – a drawing-room and four bed-rooms."

      Aunt Betha felt quite delighted at what seemed likely to be the speedy end of her labours. Everything was so neat. Drawing-room back and front. Could anything be better? Then came the question of terms.

      "Two guineas a week."

      "Would you, Mrs. – " Aunt Betha paused.

      "Parsons – my name is Parsons," said the landlady.

      "Could you, Mrs. Parsons, say less if the rooms were taken for some time?"

      "Perhaps I might, ma'am. I might say two pounds."

      "Very well. I don't think I shall do better. I will close at once, and send you word as to the day the family will arrive."

      "Pray, ma'am," inquired Mrs. Parsons, "how many are there in the family?"

      "A widow lady, and, let me see, a servant, – poor thing, she must keep one servant; she has been used to more than you can count on your fingers, – and six children."

      "I never take children, ma'am, never," said Mrs. Parsons.

      "Oh dear, that is unfortunate; but these are not young children. The little boys are twins, and are – "

      "Boys! that quite decides me, ma'am. I don't like other folk's servants about my place; but I might have got over that, had the children been girls. But boys – "

      "Then I must wish you good-morning," said Aunt Betha. "Can you tell me of any house where children would not be objected to? I live in a house full of children myself, and I find them, as a rule, a deal pleasanter than grown-up people. But of course you must please yourself."

      "I look at my furniture, ma'am, and my peace and comfort. I look to the ruin of carpets and chairs, and – "

      But Aunt Betha stayed to hear no more, and trotted off on her arduous errand.

      In and out of houses went poor Aunt Betha, with alternate hopes and fears. Some were dirty and slovenly: the landladies of these called the children "little dears," and said "they doted on children." Some rooms were too dear; some too small; and as the sharp-sounding clock of St. Luke's struck twelve, Aunt Betha felt tired out and ready to give up. She was standing hopelessly at the corner of Lavender Place, when a pleasant-looking woman, crossing the road, exclaimed with a smile, "Why, if that's not Miss Cox! Dear me, Miss Cox, how are you, ma'am?"

      "I am pretty well, Ruth, thank you; but I am tired out. I am looking for lodgings for poor Mr. Arthur Wilton's family, and I can't find any."

      "Mr. Arthur Wilton! Poor gentleman. I saw his death in the paper, and thought it must be the doctor's brother. He has left a long family, hasn't he?"

      "Yes; that is, shorter than my niece's; but six are enough to provide for when there is nothing left but debts and difficulties."

      Ruth was an old married servant of Dr. Wilton's, one of the innumerable young cooks who had been under Miss Cox, and had basely deserted her as soon as she could cook– send