“Let her come, too,” said Mr. Vetch.  “My housekeeper is leaving me; the fates are conspiring in our favor, you see.  Let her come and mother us both, and I will give her twenty pounds a year.”

I had as yet broken nothing of my designs to Mistress Pennyquick, foreseeing trouble in that quarter.  It was pitiful to see her, who had been such a bustling housewife, sitting the greater part of the day with her hands in her lap, or dabbing the tears from her eyes, and to hear her melancholy plaints, which grew the more frequent as the time drew nearer for leaving the old house.  After concluding my arrangement with Mr. Vetch I went back to the farmhouse, flung my cap into a chair, and, sitting across the corner of the table, said: 

“Only two days more, Becky.”

“And what will become of us I don’t know,” says the old woman.  “’Tis the poor house for me, and water gruel, and I’ve had my rasher regular for forty year.  And as for you, my poor lamb, never did I think I’d live to see you put on an apron, and say ’What d’ye lack, Madam?’ to stuck-up folks as’ll look on ye as so much dirt.”

“What’s this talk of aprons?” says I, laughing.

“How can ye laugh?” she says, the tears rolling down her cheeks.  “Beggars can’t be choosers, and ye’ll have to ask Mr. Huggins to have pity on ye and take ye into his shop, and ye’ll tie up sugar and coffee for Susan Cludde belike, and—­oh, deary me!”

“Nonsense, Becky,” says I.  “I shan’t have that pleasure.  I’m going to join Mr. Vetch.”

“What!” she shrieks.

“’Tis true.  Mr. Vetch has given me my articles, and instead of tying up coffee and sugar I shall tie deeds and conveyances and become a most respectable lawyer.”

“Oh! ’twill kill me!” she moans.  “Of all the dreadful news I ever heard!  And wi’ Lawyer Vetch, too; the man as devours widows’ houses and makes away with good men’s wills!  I wish I were in my grave, I do!”

“Wouldn’t you rather be with me, Becky?” I said, smiling at her.

“’Tis cruel to talk so,” she cried, sobbing.  “How can I be with ’ee?  What you get from Lawyer Vetch won’t keep two—­if you get anything at all.  They say his nephew has ruined him—­the wretch!  Indeed, if you ask me, I say you’ll get more from Mr. Huggins than from the lawyer.  You’ll have enough to do to keep yourself, without being saddled with a poor, forlorn old widow woman.”

“But won’t you come?  I am going to live with Mr. Vetch.”

“Live with the devil!” she screamed, lifting her hands with a gesture of utter despair.  “It is downright wicked of you, Humphrey—­and your poor father not a week in the grave.  Sure the end of the world be coming, when the leopard and the kid shall lie down together, and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.”

“And donkeys won’t bray, I suppose,” says I.  “There, I don’t mean you, Becky, though you are an old goose.  Mr. Vetch wants a housekeeper, and you are to come with me and mother us both, he says, and he’ll give you twenty pounds a year.”