To kill time, and drive away the pangs of remorſe, ſhe goes from one houſe to another, collecting and propagating ſcandalous tales, to bring others on a level with herſelf. Even thoſe who reſemble her are afraid of her; ſhe lives alone in the world, its good things are poiſoned by her vices, and neither inſpire joy nor gratitude.
Before I tell you how ſhe acquired theſe vicious habits, and enlarged her fortune by diſregarding truth, I must deſire you to think of Mrs. Trueman, the curate's wife, who lives in yonder white houſe cloſe to the church; it is a ſmall one, yet the woodbines and jeſſamins that twine about the windows give it a pretty appearance. Her voice is ſweet, her manners not only eaſy, but elegant; and her ſimple dreſs makes her perſon appear to the greateſt advantage.
She walks to viſit me, and her little ones hang on her hands, and cling to her clothes, they are ſo fond of her. If any thing terrifies them, they run under her apron, and she looks like the hen taking care of her
