Sabina thought of the long winter evenings, and the bright double-burner kerosene she had saved up money for; of a little round table with a red cloth, and John one side of it and she the other; of sitting together in a pew, and going every Sunday in her bride-bonnet, instead of getting her every-other-Sunday forenoon and hurrying home to fricassee Mrs. Argenter’s chicken or sweet-bread, and boil her cauliflower; and so she gave warning the next morning when she was emptying Mrs. Argenter’s bath and picking up the towels.  She steeled herself wisely with choice of time and person; it would have been hard to tell Miss Sylvie when she came down to dust the parlor, or into the kitchen to make the little dessert for dinner.

And now poor Sylvie fell into and floundered in that slough of despond, the lower stratum of the Irish kitchen element, which if one once meddles with, it is almost hopeless to get out of; and one very soon finds that to get out of it is the only hope, forlorn as it may be.

She had one girl who made sour bread for a fortnight, and then flounced off on a Monday morning, leaving the clothes in the tubs, because “her bread was never faulted before, an’ faith, she wudn’t pit up biscuits of a Sunday night no more for annybody!” The next one disposed of all the dish towels in four days, behind barrels and in the corners of the kettle closet, and complained insolently of ill furnishing; a third kindled her fire with the clothes-pins; a fourth wore Mrs. Argenter’s cambric skirts on Sunday, “for a finish, jist to make ’em worth while for the washin’,” and trod out the heels of three pairs of Sylvie’s best stockings, for a like considerate and economical reason.  Another declined peremptorily the use of a flat-iron stand, and burnt out triangular pieces from the ironing sheet and blanket; and when Sylvie remonstrated with her about the skirt-board, which she had newly covered, finding her using it as a cleaning cloth after she had heated her “flats” upon the coals, she was met with a torrent of abuse, and the assurance that she “might get somebody else to save her old rags with their apurns, an’ iron five white skirts and tin pairs o’ undersleeves a week for two women, at three dollars an’ a half.  She had heard enough about the place or iver she kim intil it, an’ the bigger fool she iver to iv set her fut inside the dooers.”

That was it.  It came to that pass, now.  They “heard about the place before iver they kim intil it.”  The Argenter name was up.  There was no getting out of the bog-mire.  Sylvie ran the gauntlet of the village refuse, and had to go to Boston to the intelligence offices.  By this time she hadn’t a kitchen or a bedroom fit to show a decent servant into.  They came, and looked, and went away; half-dozens of them.  The stove was burnt out; there was a hole through into the oven; nothing but an entire new one would do, and a new one would cost forty dollars.  Poor Sylvie toiled and worried; she went to Mrs. Ingraham and the Miss Goodwyns, and Sabina Galvin, for advice; she made ash-paste and cemented up the breaches, she hired a woman by the day, put out washing, and bought bread at the bakehouse.  All this time, Mrs. Argenter had her white skirts and her ruffled underclothing to be done up.  “What could she do?  She hadn’t any plain things, and she couldn’t get new, and she must be clean.”