Mary’s eyes soon took in the contents.  The moment she was satisfied, she uttered a short “Oh!” strongly expressive of mental relief, and handed me back the letter.

“I thought it was from Mrs. Jackson,” said the still embarrassed girl, looking confused and distressed.

“You can now retire,” said I, “and when another letter is left at my door, be kind enough to consider it my property, not yours.  I shall make it my business to see Mrs. Jackson, and ascertain from her why you are so much afraid that she will communicate with me.  There’s some thing wrong.”

Poor Mary still lingered.

“Indeed, Mrs. Smith,” she sobbed—­“I didn’t do nothing wrong at Mrs. Jackson’s, but wear her clothes sometimes.  Once I just borrowed a breastpin of hers out of her drawer, to wear to a party; and she saw me with it on, and said I had stolen it.  But, I’d put my hand in the fire before I’d steal, Mrs. Smith!  Indeed, indeed I would.  I was only going to wear it to the party; and I didn’t think there was any great harm in that.”

“Of course there was harm in using other people’s things without their consent,” I replied, severely.  “And I don’t wonder that Mrs. Jackson accused you of stealing.  But what cause had you for thinking this letter was from Mrs. Jackson?”

“The two names are so near alike, and then Mrs. Jackson speaks about—.”

Here Mary caught herself, and crimsoned still deeper.

“That is,” said I, “you took the liberty of peeping into my letter before you gave it to me; and this is not your first offence of the kind.”

Mary was too much confounded to speak, or make any effort to excuse herself; and so thought it best to retire.

I called to see Mrs. Jackson that day.  She gave Mary a good character, as far as honesty was concerned; but stated plainly her faults, especially her bad habit of wearing her clothes and trinkets, for which offence, in a moment of indignation, she had dismissed her from her service.

I saw no reason to send Mary away.  But I gave her a “good talking.”  I think she is pretty well cured of her propensity of reading other people’s letters.

CHAPTER XVI.

HOUSE-CLEANING.

I LIKE a clean house.  So does Mr. Smith, and so do all men, if they would acknowledge it.  At any rate, when their dwellings seem a little dingy or dusty—­a very thin coat of dinginess or dust over the whole, producing a decidedly bad effect—­I say when their dwellings appear to them out of order—­though ever so little—­we are sure to find it out.  The dull look of the house appears to be communicated to the countenance of the master thereof.  I confess that I have often been half inclined to wax and cork my husband’s visage, or at least to whisk over it with the duster, and see if that experiment would not restore its sunny look.