ItwasthefifteenthofJanuary，aboutnineo’clockinthemorning:Bessiewasgonedowntobreakfast;mycousinshadnotyetbeensummonedtotheirmama;Elizawasputtingonherbonnetandwarmgarden—coattogoandfeedherpoultry，anoccupationofwhichshewasfond:andnotlesssoofsellingtheeggstothehousekeeperandhoardingupthemoneyshethusobtained。Shehadaturnfortraffic，andamarkedpropensityforsaving;shownnotonlyinthevendingofeggsandchickens，butalsoindrivinghardbargainswiththegardeneraboutflower—roots，seeds，andslipsofplants;thatfunctionaryhavingordersfromMrs。Reedtobuyofhisyoungladyalltheproductsofherparterreshewishedtosell:andElizawouldhavesoldthehairoffherheadifshecouldhavemadeahandsomeprofitthereby。Astohermoney，shefirstsecreteditinoddcorners，wrappedinaragoranoldcurl—paper;butsomeofthesehoardshavingbeendiscoveredbythehousemaid，Eliza，fearfulofonedaylosinghervaluedtreasure，consentedtointrustittohermother，atausuriousrateofinterest—fiftyorsixtypercent。;whichinterestsheexactedeveryquarter，keepingheraccountsinalittlebookwithanxiousaccuracy。
Georgianasatonahighstool，dressingherhairattheglass，andinterweavinghercurlswithartificialflowersandfadedfeathers，ofwhichshehadfoundastoreinadrawerintheattic。Iwasmakingmybed，havingreceivedstrictordersfromBessietogetitarrangedbeforeshereturned（forBessienowfrequentlyemployedmeasasortofunder—nurserymaid，totidytheroom，dustthechairs，&c。）。Havingspreadthequiltandfoldedmynight—dress，Iwenttothewindow—seattoputinordersomepicture—booksanddoll’shousefurniturescatteredthere;anabruptcommandfromGeorgianatoletherplaythingsalone（forthetinychairsandmirrors，thefairyplatesandcups，wereherproperty）stoppedmyproceedings;andthen，forlackofotheroccupation，Ifelltobreathingonthefrost—flowerswithwhichthewindowwasfretted，andthusclearingaspaceintheglassthroughwhichImightlookoutonthegrounds，whereallwasstillandpetrifiedundertheinfluenceofahardfrost。
Fromthiswindowwerevisibletheporter’slodgeandthecarriage—road，andjustasIhaddissolvedsomuchofthesilver—whitefoliageveilingthepanesasleftroomtolookout，Isawthegatesthrownopenandacarriagerollthrough。Iwatcheditascendingthedrivewithindifference;carriagesoftencametoGateshead，butnoneeverbroughtvisitorsinwhomIwasinterested;itstoppedinfrontofthehouse，thedoor—bellrangloudly，thenew—comerwasadmitted。Allthisbeingnothingtome，myvacantattentionsoonfoundlivelierattractioninthespectacleofalittlehungryrobin，whichcameandchirrupedonthetwigsoftheleaflesscherry—treenailedagainstthewallnearthecasement。Theremainsofmybreakfastofbreadandmilkstoodonthetable，andhavingcrumbledamorselofroll，Iwastuggingatthesashtoputoutthecrumbsonthewindow—sill，whenBessiecamerunningupstairsintothenursery。
“MissJane，takeoffyourpinafore;whatareyoudoingthere？Haveyouwashedyourhandsandfacethismorning？”IgaveanothertugbeforeIanswered，forIwantedthebirdtobesecureofitsbread:thesashyielded;Iscatteredthecrumbs，someonthestonesill，someonthecherry—treebough，then，closingthewindow，Ireplied—
“No，Bessie;Ihaveonlyjustfinisheddusting。”