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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
48
The
other
day
she
told
me
a
story
of
the
days
gone
by.
Her
mother,
at
the
age
of
twelve,
went
into
domestic
service;
but
on
what
conditions,
think
you?
The
girl's
father,
an
honest
labouring
man,
paid
the
person
whose
house
she
entered
one
shilling
a
week
for
her
instruction
in
the
duties
she
wished
to
undertake.
What
a
grinning
stare
would
come
to
the
face
of
any
labourer
nowadays,
who
should
be
asked
to
do
the
like!
I
no
longer
wonder
that
my
housekeeper
so
little
resembles
the
average
of
her
kind.
XVII.
A
day
of
almost
continuous
rain,
yet
for
me
a
day
of
delight.
I
had
breakfasted,
and
was
poring
over
the
map
of
Devon
(how
I
love
a
good
map!)
to
trace
an
expedition
that
I
have
in
view,
when
a
knock
came
at
my
door,
and
Mrs.
M.
bore
in
a
great
brown-paper
parcel,
which
I
saw
at
a
glance
must
contain
books.
The
order
was
sent
to
London
a
few
days
ago;
I
had
not
expected
to
have
my
books
so
soon.
With
throbbing
heart
I
set
the
parcel
on
a
clear
table;
eyed
it
whilst
I
mended
the
fire;
then
took
my
pen-knife,
and
gravely,
deliberately,
though
with
hand
that
trembled,
began
to
unpack.
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