“ Here it is,” said I. “Here is Frederick sitting by Ellen, glancing at her brilliant face, and saying something about “guardian angel,” and all that — you remember?”
“ Yes, yes,” said she, falling into a muse, as she attempted to recover the thread of her story.
“Ma'am, shall I put the pork on the top of the beans?” asked Mina.
“Come, come,” said Harriet, laughing. “You see how it is. Mina is a new hand and cannot do anything without me to direct her. We must give up the writing for to-day.”
“No, no; let us have another trial. You can dictate as easily as you can write. Come, I can set the baby in this clothes-basket and give him some mischief or other to keep him quiet; you shall dictate and I will write. Now, this is the place where you left off: you were describing the scene between Ellen and her lover; the last sentence was, “Borne down by the tide of agony, she leaned her head on her hands, the tears streamed through her fingers, and her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs.” What shall I write next?”
“ Mina, pour a little milk into this pearlash,” said Harriet.
“ Come,” said I. ““The tears streamed through her fingers and her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs.” What next?”
Harriet paused and looked musingly out of the window, as she turned her mind to her story. “ You may write now,” said she, and she dictated as follows:
Her lover wept with her, nor dared he again to
