“Poor poor widow woman!” said my Billy, with tears; and my little dove shed tears too, and Davers was moved, and Miss wiped her fine eyes.

“But what became of the naughty boys, and the naughty girl, mamma?”

“Became of them!  Why one son was forced to go to sea, and there he was drowned:  another turned thief (for he would not work), and he came to an untimely end:  the third was idle and ignorant, and nobody, who knew how he used his poor mother, would employ him; and so he was forced to go into a far country, and beg his bread.  And the naughty girl, having never loved work, pined away in sloth and filthiness, and at last broke her arm, and died of a fever, lamenting, too late, that she had been so wicked a daughter to so good a mother!—­And so there was a sad end to all the four ungracious children, who never would mind what their poor mother said to them; and God punished their naughtiness as you see!—­While the good children I mentioned before, were the glory of their family, and the delight of every body that knew them.”

“Who would not be good?” was the inference:  and the repetition from Billy, with his hands clapt together, “Poor widow woman!” gave me much pleasure.

So my childish story ended, with a kiss of each pretty dear, and their thanks for my story:  and then came on Miss’s request for a woman’s story, as she called it.  I dismissed my babies to their play; and taking Miss’s hand, she standing before me, all attention, began in a more womanly strain to her; for she is very fond of being thought a woman; and indeed is a prudent sensible dear, comprehends any thing instantly, and makes very pretty reflections upon what she hears or reads as you will observe in what follows: 

“There is nothing, my dear Miss Goodwin, that young ladies should be so watchful over, as their reputation:  ’tis a tender flower that the least frost will nip, the least cold wind will blast; and when once blasted, it will never flourish again, but wither to the very root.  But this I have told you so often, I need not repeat what I have said.  So to my story.

“There were four pretty ladies lived in one genteel neighbourhood, daughters of four several families; but all companions and visitors; and yet all of very different inclinations.  Coquetilla we will call one, Prudiana another, Profusiana the third, and Prudentia the fourth; their several names denoting their respective qualities.

“Coquetilla was the only daughter of a worthy baronet, by a lady very gay, but rather indiscreet than unvirtuous, who took not the requisite care of her daughter’s education, but let her be over-run with the love of fashion, dress, and equipage; and when in London, balls, operas, plays, the Park, the Ring, the withdrawing-room, took up her whole attention.  She admired nobody but herself, fluttered about, laughing at, and despising a crowd of men-followers, whom she attracted by gay, thoughtless freedoms of behaviour,