With his daughters he was scarcely more successful.  For, though they had not brought sorrow or shame to his house, they seemed as little amenable to the discipline he had hoped to exert in his family as the boys were.  The elder had married, at fifteen years of age, a journeyman printer; and so, instead of filling the place of housemaid in some good family, as her father had fondly dreamed, she was cook, housemaid, and general servant to a man aware of his rights, and determined to maintain them, and nurse and mother (giving the more important function precedence) to six riotous children.  Though his child had thus disappointed his hopes, she had not lost his affection, and he even enjoyed the Sunday afternoon romp with his six grandchildren, which ordinarily took place in the shop among the shavings.  Wixham, the son-in-law, was not prosperous, and the children were not so well dressed that the sawdust would damage their clothes.

The youngest of Matchin’s four children was our acquaintance Miss Maud, as she called herself, though she was christened Matilda.  When Mrs. Matchin was asked, after that ceremony, “Who she was named for?” she said, “Nobody in partic’lar.  I call her Matildy because it’s a pretty name, and goes well with Jurildy, my oldest gal.”  She had evolved that dreadful appellation out of her own mind.  It had done no special harm, however, as Miss Jurildy had rechristened herself Poguy at a very tender age, in a praiseworthy attempt to say “Rogue,” and the delighted parents had never called her anything else.  Thousands of comely damsels all over this broad land suffer under names as revolting, punished through life, by the stupidity of parental love, for a slip of the tongue in the cradle.  Matilda got off easily in the matter of nicknames, being called Mattie until she was pretty well grown, and then having changed her name suddenly to Maud, for reasons to be given hereafter.

She was a hearty, blowzy little girl.  Her father delighted in her coarse vigor and energy.  She was not a pretty child, and had not a particle of coquetry in her, apparently; she liked to play with the boys when they would allow her, and never presumed upon her girlhood for any favors in their rough sport; and good-natured as she was, she was able to defend herself on occasion with tongue and fists.  She was so full of life and strength that, when she had no playing to do, she took pleasure in helping her mother about her work.  It warmed Saul Matchin’s heart to see the stout little figure sweeping or scrubbing.  She went to school but did not “learn enough to hurt her,” as her father said; and he used to think that here, at least, would be one child who would be a comfort to his age.  In fancy he saw her, in a neat print dress and white cap, wielding a broom in one of those fine houses he had helped to build, or coming home to keep house for him when her mother should fail.