This was the little starved, meritorious maid, who stood before old
Ravenscroft, the treasurer, for her Saturday's payment.

Ravenscroft was a man, I have heard many old theatrical people besides
herself say, of all men least calculated for a treasurer. He had no
head for accounts, paid away at random, kept scarce any books, and
summing up at the week's end, if he found himself a pound or so
deficient, blest himself that it was no worse.

Now Barbara's weekly stipend was a bare half guinea.--By mistake he
popped into her hand a--whole one.

Barbara tripped away.

She was entirely unconscious at first of the mistake: God knows,
Ravenscroft would never have discovered it.

But when she had got down to the first of those uncouth
landing-places, she became sensible of an unusual weight of metal
pressing her little hand.

Now mark the dilemma.

She was by nature a good child. From her parents and those about her
she had imbibed no contrary influence. But then they had taught her
nothing. Poor men's smoky cabins are not always porticoes of moral
philosophy. This little maid had no instinct to evil, but then she
might be said to have no fixed principle. She had heard honesty
commended, but never dreamed of its application to herself. She