Well! it was a Saturday night,
and I'd my baize apron on, and the tails of my bed-gown pinned
together behind, down on my knees, pipeclaying the kitchen, when
a knock comes to the back door. 'Come in!' says I; but it knocked
again, as if it were too stately to open the door for itself; so
I got up rather cross, and opened the door; and there stood Jerry
Dixon, Mr. Holt's head-clerk; only he was not head-clerk then. So
I stood, stopping up the door, fancying he wanted to speak to
master; but he kind of pushed past me, and telling me summut
about the weather (as if I could not see it for myself), he took
a chair, and sat down by the oven. 'Cool and easy!' thought I;
meaning hisself, not his place, which I knew must be pretty hot.
Well! it seemed no use standing waiting for my gentleman to go;
not that he had much to say either; but he kept twirling his hat
round and round, and smoothing the nap on't with the back of his
hand. So at last I squatted down to my work, and thinks I, I
shall be on my knees all ready if he puts up a prayer, for I knew
he was a Methodee by bringing-up, and had only lately turned to
master's way of thinking; and them Methodees are terrible hands
at unexpected prayers when one least looks for 'em. I can't say I
like their way of taking one by surprise, as it were; but then
I'm a parish-clerk's daughter, and could never demean myself to
dissenting fashions, always save and except Master Thurstan's,
bless him.
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