When there's a mess of any kind in a house, sir, the women-servants like to look at the gloomy side--it gives the poor wretches a kind of importance in their own eyes.

If there's anybody ill, trust the women for prophesying that the person will die.

If it's a jewel lost, trust them for prophesying that it will never be found again." This view (which I am bound to say, I thought a probable view myself, on reflection) seemed to relieve Mr.Franklin mightily: he folded up his telegram, and dismissed the subject.

On my way to the stables, to order the pony-chaise, I looked in at the servants' hall, where they were at dinner.

Rosanna Spearman was not among them.