Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
The Look of the Thing.
REBECCA BURTON and Lydia White sat chatting over their tea. They werenear neighbours, for they dwelt opposite to each other; and Rebecca,who earned her living by going out washing and charing, and had but alonely time of it during the long winter evenings, was often invitedby kind Widow White to share a meal with her and her little daughterAgnes. Not that Rebecca was one whose society gave much pleasure toher friend: she was a bustling, gossiping woman, very full of herneighbours' concerns. Where there is little thinking, there is apt tobe much talking; it has been well said that only empty bottles arenever corked up.
Little Agnes, with her large black attentive eyes, sat perched on ahigh chair beside her mother, listening to every word that was spoken,and not a little amused by Rebecca's idle gossip. While slice afterslice of buttered toast and tea-cake were despatched, cup after cup ofgood black tea poured from the shining tea-pot, the guest talked aseagerly and as fast, as if talking were "the business of life."
"Well, Mrs. White," said Rebecca, helping herself for the third timefrom the well-filled plate, "I think that you've always had a bit ofa fancy for that Mrs. Miles, but she's not a person to my mind. Wouldyou believe it now, when the subscription went round for the poorweavers,—and even I, hard up as I often am, could manage to drop a bitof silver into