“Some water, Rachael, if you please.”  Or, “Rachael, step down and, bring up some hot potatoes.”  Or—­“Here, Rachael,” with a pleasant smile, “you have forgotten the salt spoons,” were forms of addressing a waiter upon the table so different from what Helen had ever heard, that she listened to them with utter amazement.  And she was no less surprised to see with what cheerful alacrity every direction, or rather request, was obeyed.

After they all rose from the table, and had retired to the parlor, a pleasant conversation took place, in which no allusions whatever were made to the dreadful annoyance of servants, an almost unvarying subject of discourse at Mr. Armitage’s, after the conclusion of nearly every badly cooked, illy served meal.—­A discourse too often overheard by some one of the domestics and retailed in the kitchen, to breed confirmed ill-will, and a spirit of opposition towards the principal members of the family.

Nearly half an hour had passed from the time they had risen from the table, when a younger sister of Fanny’s, who was going out to a little afternoon party, asked if Rachael might not be called up from the kitchen to get something for her.

“No, my dear, not until she has finished her dinner,” was the mild reply of Mrs. Milnor.

“But it won’t take her over a minute, mother, and I am in a hurry.”

“I can’t help it, my dear.  You will have to wait.  Rachael must not be disturbed at her meals.  You should have thought of this before, dinner.  You know I have always tried to impress upon your mind, that there are certain hours in which domestics must not be called upon to do any thing, unless of serious importance.  They have their rights, as well, as we have, and it is just as wrong for us to encroach upon their rights, as it is for them to encroach upon ours.”

“Never mind, mother, I will wait,” the little girl said, cheerfully.  “But I thought, it was such a trifle, and would have taken her only a minute.”

“It is true, my dear, that is but a trifle.  Still, even trifles of this kind we should form the habit of avoiding; for they may seriously annoy at a time when we dream not that they are thought of for a moment.  Think how, just as you had seated yourself at the table, tired and hungry, you would like to be called away, your food scarcely tasted, to perform some task, the urgency of which to you, at least, was very questionable?”

“I was wrong I know, mother,” the child replied, “and you are right.”

All this was new and strange doctrine to Helen Armitage, but she was enabled to see, from the manner in which Mrs. Milnor represented the subject, that it was true doctrine.  As this became clear to her mind, she saw with painful distinctness the error that had thrown disorder into every part of her mother’s household; and more than this, she inwardly resolved, that, so far as her action was concerned, a new order of things should take place.  In this she was in earnest—­so much so, that she made some allusion to the difference of things at home, to what they were at Mrs. Milnor’s, and frankly confessed that she had not acted upon the kind and considerate principles that seemed to govern all in this well-ordered family.