"Over with her," he adds, like one impelled by crowding thoughts to
untimely utterance. "The bills of mortality will say pneumonia--_it
were better written murder_."
Call it murder, or suicide, as you will; only, fair reader, see to
it that responsibility in such a case lies never at your door.
X.
THE NURSERY MAID.
_I DID_ not feel in a very good humor either with myself or with
Polly, my nursery maid. The fact is, Polly had displeased me; and I,
while under the influence of rather excited feelings, had rebuked
her with a degree of intemperance not exactly becoming in a
Christian gentlewoman, or just to a well meaning, though not perfect
domestic.
Polly had taken my sharp words without replying. They seemed to stun
her. She stood for a few moments, after the vials of my wrath were
emptied, her face paler than usual, and her lips almost colorless.
Then she turned and walked from my room with a slow but firm step.
There was an air of purpose about her, and a manner that puzzled me
a little.
The thermometer of my feelings was gradually falling, though not yet
reduced very far below fever-heat, when Polly stood again before me.
A red spot now burned on each cheek, and her eyes were steady as she
let them rest in mine.
"Mrs. Wilkins," said she, firmly, yet respectfully, "I am going to
leave when my month is up."
Now, I have my own share of willfulness and impulsive independence.
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