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THE OLD STONE MANSION.

did not enter, for they looked dangerous, and smelt damp and fetid. None had any furniture in. I was forced to conclude that Mr. Bentley slept in an out-house.

In my walks I met the old woman, who had waited on us the day before. It seemed as if the advent of Mr. Bentley, with his sinister look, had cast a glamour over the place which affected everything; for this servant, who, had seemed, when I first saw her, only a vulgar-looking cook and maid-of-all-work, now wore a hag-like expression, which made my blood run cold. Toothless, blear-eyed, withered, with long, skinny he is inflexible.” And saying this, I went up fingers, and already beut by age, she came upon me so suddenly, as I turned the angle of the house, that I started with a slight, involuntary scream, as if I had seen a witch.

In the course of my further researches, I de tected, at the rear of the hall, a massive door leading to the right, and saw that it conducted to a large apartment, the only room, on that side of the house, not plainly a prey to bats and owls. But whether it was in decay or not I failed to  discover, for I could not get admittance into it  from any point, as it was protected outside by     wooden shutters, firmly bolted within, and though a door led into it from the front room, which had been used as a dining hall in the palmy days of the mansion, that, also, was now tightly locked. As I was trying the fastenings of this door, the old servant who seemed to be prowling about watching me, came up and told me the room was nailed up, and had not been used for twenty years.

When I had exhausted the mansion, I went to the out-houses, but still found no place, except a hay-loft, where Mr. Bentley could have slept The out-houses were as ruinous as the mansion itself, being mostly covered with moss, or over¬ grown with briars or poison vines, while between the cracks in their gaping walls, green, slimy lizards ran in and out.

Georgiana still kept her room, when I had finished these explorations, and I knocked in  vain for admittance. She had a violent sick head-ache, she said, wouldn’t I excuse her till dinner-time?” The dinner would be at five o’clock, a late dinner to be sure, but Arthur had promised to return by that hour.” She thought if she could get a little sleep she would be quite well again. Poor thing 1 I read it all. She was exhausted by weeping, and fancied that by secluding herself and courting sleep, she could come out at dinner-time, looking freshly, and so deceive me and her husband.

My only chance of avoiding thought was to keep myself occupied. So, when I found that Georgiana was not coming down, l resolved to go into the city, and inquire where, or how, I  could get work. It had to be done at some time; for I was determined not to be dependent. Why not at once?

I hesitated, at first, thinking that Mr. Talbot might, possibly, relent, and that a note might come from him iu my absence. But my pride whispered, that, in such an event, my triumph would be the greater if I was away. Triumph!” I said to myself, immediately after,  ah! he will never write: there will be no triumph for me; he is inflexible.” And saying this, I went up stairs for my bonnet. I was torn by conflicting emotions: now angry at him for what I called his tyranny and obstinacy, now more than half  convinced that it was I who had been exacting.

I had talked, often and bravely, of what a true woman could do, in spite of the social injustice   that beset her path, if left to provide for herself, I tried, as I walked toward the city, to recall all this and to assure myself that the task before me  was an easy one. I had only to will it, I said, and all difficulties would disappear. There was nothing menial in working for one’s bread:  nothing in the mere act of asking for employment, that should call a blush to the face. But when I reached the place where I had determined  to make my first application, my heart failed me. It was a picture dealer’s, where I hoped to dis¬ pose of a few water-color sketches, which I in¬ tended to paint. But I walked past the store, two or three times, before I could muster courage to go in. When, at last, I did enter, and nervously told my errand, the rough, curt way in which I was told that there was no demand for such things now,” made every vein tingle with alternate shame and indignation. I had to school myself, for more than an hour, before I could venture on a second attempt elsewhere: and here the answer was the same.

I do not, in writing this autobiography, seek to extenuate myself. I ought not, I know, to have been either angry or ashamed. My reason told me so, even then. But we are flesh and blood, not mathematical machines. We feel ths 8tings of pride, we resent insult, and this the more readily, the more unhappy and friendless we are. To be poor is no crime, but, in the world’s eye at least, it is a stigma. To go about, morning after morning, week after week, solicit¬ ing employment, when all avenues are filled, often meeting rudeness and nearly always coldnoss, in no small cross for a woman to bear. - Those who have been accustomed to it, all their lives, feel it to be such. It was worse for me. It was the worse for one proud like I was; for pride was