When she had thought of this, she fastened up her hair and began to wash:  it seemed more possible to her to go downstairs and try to behave as usual.  She would ask her uncle this very day.  On Hetty’s blooming health it would take a great deal of such mental suffering as hers to leave any deep impress; and when she was dressed as neatly as usual in her working-dress, with her hair tucked up under her little cap, an indifferent observer would have been more struck with the young roundness of her cheek and neck and the darkness of her eyes and eyelashes than with any signs of sadness about her.  But when she took up the crushed letter and put it in her drawer, that she might lock it out of sight, hard smarting tears, having no relief in them as the great drops had that fell last night, forced their way into her eyes.  She wiped them away quickly:  she must not cry in the day-time.  Nobody should find out how miserable she was, nobody should know she was disappointed about anything; and the thought that the eyes of her aunt and uncle would be upon her gave her the self-command which often accompanies a great dread.  For Hetty looked out from her secret misery towards the possibility of their ever knowing what had happened, as the sick and weary prisoner might think of the possible pillory.  They would think her conduct shameful, and shame was torture.  That was poor little Hetty’s conscience.

So she locked up her drawer and went away to her early work.

In the evening, when Mr. Poyser was smoking his pipe, and his good-nature was therefore at its superlative moment, Hetty seized the opportunity of her aunt’s absence to say, “Uncle, I wish you’d let me go for a lady’s maid.”

Mr. Poyser took the pipe from his mouth and looked at Hetty in mild surprise for some moments.  She was sewing, and went on with her work industriously.

“Why, what’s put that into your head, my wench?” he said at last, after he had given one conservative puff.

“I should like it—­I should like it better than farm-work.”

“Nay, nay; you fancy so because you donna know it, my wench.  It wouldn’t be half so good for your health, nor for your luck i’ life.  I’d like you to stay wi’ us till you’ve got a good husband:  you’re my own niece, and I wouldn’t have you go to service, though it was a gentleman’s house, as long as I’ve got a home for you.”

Mr. Poyser paused, and puffed away at his pipe.

“I like the needlework,” said Hetty, “and I should get good wages.”

“Has your aunt been a bit sharp wi’ you?” said Mr. Poyser, not noticing Hetty’s further argument.  “You mustna mind that, my wench—­she does it for your good.  She wishes you well; an’ there isn’t many aunts as are no kin to you ‘ud ha’ done by you as she has.”

“No, it isn’t my aunt,” said Hetty, “but I should like the work better.”

“It was all very well for you to learn the work a bit—­an’ I gev my consent to that fast enough, sin’ Mrs. Pomfret was willing to teach you.  For if anything was t’ happen, it’s well to know how to turn your hand to different sorts o’ things.  But I niver meant you to go to service, my wench; my family’s ate their own bread and cheese as fur back as anybody knows, hanna they, Father?  You wouldna like your grand-child to take wage?”