This poor woman who labours for me in my house is even such a one.  From the first I thought her an unusually good servant; after three years of acquaintance, I find her one of the few women I have known who merit the term of excellent.  She can read and write—­that is all.  More instruction would, I am sure, have harmed her, for it would have confused her natural motives, without supplying any clear ray of mental guidance.  She is fulfilling the offices for which she was born, and that with a grace of contentment, a joy of conscientiousness, which puts her high among civilized beings.  Her delight is in order and in peace; what greater praise can be given to any of the children of men?

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.

It is a joy to go through booksellers’ catalogues, ticking here and there a possible purchase.  Formerly, when I could seldom spare money, I kept catalogues as much as possible out of sight; now I savour them page by page, and make a pleasant virtue of the discretion I must needs impose upon myself.  But greater still is the happiness of unpacking volumes which one has bought without seeing them.  I am no hunter of rarities; I care nothing for first editions and for tall copies; what I buy is literature, food for the soul of man.  The first glimpse of bindings when the inmost protective wrapper has been folded back!  The first scent of books!  The first gleam of a gilded title!  Here is a work the name of which has been known to me for half a lifetime, but which I never yet saw; I take it reverently in my hand, gently I open it; my eyes are dim with excitement as I glance over chapter-headings, and anticipate the treat which awaits me.  Who, more than I, has taken to heart that sentence of the Imitatio—­“In omnibus requiem quaesivi, et nusquam inveni nisi in angulo cum libro”?