SHALL, I PASS IT ON?
"Me refrunce, mum!" I look up, bewildered, from an essay to which I have just set the caption--"Who is my Neighbor ?" "Me carackter, mum! Me stiffticket! You'll not be sending me away without one, peticklerly as 'twas meself as give warnin' ?" She is ready for departure.

Dressed in decent black for the brother "who was drownded las' summer," she stands at the back of my desk, one hand on her hip, and makes her demand.

It is not a petition, but a dispassionate statement of a case that has no other side.
She has been in my kitchen for six months as my nominal servitor.

She has drawn her wages punctually for that time.

She "wants a change;" her month is up; she is going out of my house, out of my employ, out of my life.