“It is this.  Mr. Horner tells me that the business-letters, relating to the estate, are multiplying so much that he finds it impossible to copy them all himself, and I therefore require the services of some confidential and discreet person to copy these letters, and occasionally to go through certain accounts.  Now, there is a very pleasant little sitting-room very near to Mr. Horner’s office (you know Mr. Horner’s office—­on the other side of the stone hall?), and if I could prevail upon you to come here to breakfast and afterwards sit there for three hours every morning, Mr. Horner should bring or send you the papers—­”

Lady Ludlow stopped.  Miss Galindo’s countenance had fallen.  There was some great obstacle in her mind to her wish for obliging Lady Ludlow.

“What would Sally do?” she asked at length.  Lady Ludlow had not a notion who Sally was.  Nor if she had had a notion, would she have had a conception of the perplexities that poured into Miss Galindo’s mind, at the idea of leaving her rough forgetful dwarf without the perpetual monitorship of her mistress.  Lady Ludlow, accustomed to a household where everything went on noiselessly, perfectly, and by clock-work, conducted by a number of highly-paid, well-chosen, and accomplished servants, had not a conception of the nature of the rough material from which her servants came.  Besides, in her establishment, so that the result was good, no one inquired if the small economies had been observed in the production.  Whereas every penny—­every halfpenny, was of consequence to Miss Galindo; and visions of squandered drops of milk and wasted crusts of bread filled her mind with dismay.  But she swallowed all her apprehensions down, out of her regard for Lady Ludlow, and desire to be of service to her.  No one knows how great a trial it was to her when she thought of Sally, unchecked and unscolded for three hours every morning.  But all she said was—­

“‘Sally, go to the Deuce.’  I beg your pardon, my lady, if I was talking to myself; it’s a habit I have got into of keeping my tongue in practice, and I am not quite aware when I do it.  Three hours every morning!  I shall be only too proud to do what I can for your ladyship; and I hope Mr. Horner will not be too impatient with me at first.  You know, perhaps, that I was nearly being an authoress once, and that seems as if I was destined to ‘employ my time in writing.’”

“No, indeed; we must return to the subject of the clerkship afterwards, if you please.  An authoress, Miss Galindo!  You surprise me!”

“But, indeed, I was.  All was quite ready.  Doctor Burney used to teach me music:  not that I ever could learn, but it was a fancy of my poor father’s.  And his daughter wrote a book, and they said she was but a very young lady, and nothing but a music-master’s daughter; so why should not I try?”

“Well?”

“Well!  I got paper and half-a-hundred good pens, a bottle of ink, all ready—­”