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‘Well, Firkin?’ says she, as the other entered the apart-
ment. ‘Well, Jane?’
‘Wuss and wuss, Miss B.,’ Firkin said, wagging her
head.
‘Is she not better then?’
‘She never spoke but once, and I asked her if she felt a
little more easy, and she told me to hold my stupid tongue.
Oh, Miss B., I never thought to have seen this day!’ And the
water-works again began to play.
‘What sort of a person is this Miss Sharp, Firkin? I little
thought, while enjoying my Christmas revels in the elegant
home of my firm friends, the Reverend Lionel Delamere
and his amiable lady, to find a stranger had taken my place
in the affections of my dearest, my still dearest Matilda!’
Miss Briggs, it will be seen by her language, was of a literary
and sentimental turn, and had once published a volume of
poems—‘Trills of the Nightingale’—by subscription.
‘Miss B., they are all infatyated about that young wom-
an,’ Firkin replied. ‘Sir Pitt wouldn’t have let her go, but he
daredn’t refuse Miss Crawley anything. Mrs. Bute at the
Rectory jist as bad—never happy out of her sight. The Capt-
ing quite wild about her. Mr. Crawley mortial jealous. Since
Miss C. was took ill, she won’t have nobody near her but
Miss Sharp, I can’t tell for where nor for why; and I think
somethink has bewidged everybody.’
Rebecca passed that night in constant watching upon
Miss Crawley; the next night the old lady slept so comfort-
ably, that Rebecca had time for several hours’ comfortable
repose herself on the sofa, at the foot of her patroness’s bed;

194 Vanity Fair