Husbands, as far as my observation gives me the ability to judge, have far less consideration for, and patience with their wives, than they are entitled to receive.  If any should know best the wife’s trials, sufferings, and incessant exhausting duties, it is the husband, and he, of all others, should be the last to censure, if, from very prostration of body and mind, she be sometimes betrayed into hasty words, that generally do more harm among children and domestics than total silence in regard to what is wrong.  But this is a digression.

One day, I called to see Mrs. Martinet, and found her in a very disturbed state of mind.

“I am almost worried to death, Kate!” she said, soon after I came in.

“You look unhappy,” I returned.  “What has happened?”

“What is always happening,” she replied.  “Scarcely a day passes over my head that my patience is not tried to the utmost.  I must let every body in the house do just as he or she likes, or else there is a disturbance.  I am not allowed to speak out my own mind, without some one’s being offended.”

“It is a great trial, as well as responsibility to have the charge of a family,” I remarked.

“Indeed, and you may well say that.  No one knows what it is but she who has the trial.  The greatest trouble is with your domestics.  As a class, they are, with few exceptions, dirty, careless, and impudent.  I sometimes think it gives them pleasure to interfere with your household arrangements and throw all into disorder.  This seems especially to be the spirit of my present cook.  My husband is particular about having his meals at the hour, and is never pleased when irregularities occur, although he does not often say any thing; this I told Hannah, when she first came, and have scolded her about being behindhand a dozen times since; and yet we do not have a meal at the hour oftener than two or three times a week.

“This morning, Mr. Martinet asked me if I wouldn’t be particular in seeing that dinner was on the table exactly at two o’clock.  As soon as he was gone, I went down into the kitchen and said, ’Do, for mercy’s sake, Hannah, have dinner ready at the hour to-day.  Mr. Martinet particularly desires it.’  Hannah made no answer.  It is one of her disagreeable habits, when you speak to her.  ’Did you hear me?’ I asked, quite out of patience with her.  The creature looked up at me with an impudent face and said, pertly, ‘I’m not deaf.’  ’Then, why didn’t you answer me when I spoke?  It’s a very ugly habit that you have of not replying when any one addresses you.  How is it to be known that you hear what is said?’ The spirit in which Hannah met my request to have dinner ready in time, satisfied me that she would so manage as to throw it off beyond the regular hour.  I left the kitchen feeling, as you may well suppose, exceedingly worried.”

Just then the door of the room in which we were sitting was thrown open with a bang, and in bounded Harry, Mrs. Martinet’s eldest boy—­a wild young scape-grace of a fellow—­and whooping out some complaint against his sister.  His mother, startled and annoyed by the rude interruption, ordered him to leave the room instantly.  But Harry stood his ground without moving an eyelash.