THE DAILY GOVERNESS.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

THE lark went up to heaven, seeming to beat his breast against the ancient sky; yet, tiny speck as he was, scarcely discernible to the keenest vision, his song was audible to Lucy Hinchliff in her mother's little garden. Lucy was a daily governess, and was in the act of plucking a rose to adorn her bosom, before she set out to enter upon the day's routine. She cast her eyes around the modest garden-it was a very modest, very little garden-looked up at the lark once more, received the last note of its song into her soul, smiled at the gray-headed mother in the pinched widow's cap, who was standing at the window, waved her adieus, and closed the small gate after her.

There was not in all the suburb in which we lived a better girl, a prettier girl, a more loving, more dutiful daughter than Lucy Hinchliff. She first attracted our attention when we went with satchel on our back, willingly enough, to school. She was younger by two years than ourselves—a little, timid thing, as we remember her. She had a father at that time, but we could see that the old gentleman was poor; and once we were prompted to offer her some of our victuals which we bore in our bag (for we

dined at school), fearing that she had not enough to eat at home. It was only a boy's thought, and now we are more happy that we did not commit ourselves by the insult, than if we had realized our early dreams, those bubbles bred in a child's active brain.

Her father died, and they became poorer. A rich relation took Lucy away, to bestow upon her a superior education. It was all he could do for her, he said; though he kept his carriage, and his servants, and cast bread to dogs. She returned to her mother after three years, to aid their mutual support by teaching.

Who knows, besides themselves, the lives that daily governesses lead? Who has tasted, besides themselves, the bitterness of the bread they eat? The fine mistress may not frown too severely upon her cook or footman. They would resent it and would seek another place. But the poor governess! That she will resign her engagement is not to be apprehended. And are there not dozens-scores, who would be glad to succeed her, if she gave herself airs? There are tragedies in real life more sad to witness than any of the histrionic art, and the life of the daily governess, in meager circumstances, is one whole tragedy. Lucy Hinchliff closed the garden gate, and passed from her mother's sight. It was a fine morning, and she was early. She had, therefore, no occasion to hurry, as she was sometimes obliged to do. She felt very glad that the morning was fine, for, to tell the homely truth, her shoes-well-nigh worn out-were far from being water-proof. She had sat all day with wet feet once before, from the same cause, and much need she had to be careful of her

health for her mother's sake. She had few acquaintances on the road she traversed-though she was familiar as their own children's faces to all the small tradesmen-they saw her pass so regularly morning and evening. The green-grocer would frequently tell his wife that it was time to get the breakfast, for the young lady with the music-paper was abroad. The toll-gate keeper was Lucy's only speaking acquaintance of the male sex. He had always a kind word for her. Nor did Lucy fail to ask him after the child that was scalded-a frightful accident that or whether his eldest girl was at home yet, and other little queries. "There she goes," the man would say, when she had turned from him. "Hers is a hard life, poor thing !"

"Not hard at all, Mister Marten," retorted Dame Wringlinen, on one occasion. "Hard, indeed. I think she's got a very easy berth o't. Put her over a washing-tub, and give her three or four counterpanes for a morning's work, and see what she'd

make o't!"

"Ah, you don't know all !" said the toll-keeper, significantly. And he was right.

The lady at whose house Lucy commenced the instructions of the day, was a very nervous lady indeed; and like your nervous people, she was extremely irascible. Lucy's knock offended her. She hated single knocks. Why had they a bell, if it was not to exempt the house from the vulgarity of single knocks? Once, in a fit of forgetfulness, the governess gave a palpitating double knock, and then Mrs. Robert Smith was astonished at her presumption. "Miss Miss, I forget your name " Mrs. Robert

Smith often contrived to forget a name which was the prop erty of a humble dependent, and was so much better than her

own.

"Hinchliff, ma'am," prompted Lucy on the occasion referred to.

Ah, Hinchliff. Well, Miss Hinchliff, if, for the future, you would remember not to give a double knock, you would oblige me. I really thought it was visitors, and, as I am in my dishabille, it set me all in a flutter-you should consider my nerves, Miss Hinchliff."

Poor Lucy! If she could have afforded to be so much in fashion, as to own to the possession of nerves, the lady's nervousness would have infected her.

"Now, Miss Hinchliff," said Mrs. Robert Smith, when the gov erness had taken off her bonnet and shawl on the morning we make her acquaintance, "are you up in those new quadrilles yet?" “I am very sorry, ma'am, but I have been so much engagedI only took them home the day before yesterday, and so little of my time is my own."

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Well, Miss Hinchliff, of course, if you have too many engagements, and my dear children are to be neglected on that account, it will be Mr. Robert Smith's duty to seek another responsible person, whose engagements are not so numerous; you cannot object to that, I am sure."

“Oh, ma'am,” was Lucy's faltering reply; "I am too happy to be employed by you. I will be sure to get the quadrilles ready by to-morrow."

God pity her. She spoke the truth. She was too happy to be employed by Mrs. Robert Smith.

"I will excuse you this time, Miss Hinchliff,' said the lady, conciliated by Lucy's answer, "but I shall certainly expect the quadrilles to-morrow. I think you said when we first engaged you, that you taught Italian? Priscilla is to learn it."

"I shall be most happy, ma'am," replied Lucy, brightening up. "Mr. Robert Smith says that he has read-he is a great reader, as you know-that there are some very pretty poems in Italian, though he called one by a very shocking name—a kind of playhouse thing."

"Which was that, ma'am?" inquired Lucy, mentally reverting to Goldoni and Metastatio.

"You ought to tell me," replied the lady. "You know of course the pretty Italian poem with the playhouse name."

"Do you mean Dante's Divine Comedy, ma'am?"

"Yes, that is it a very pretty poem-is it not?" "It is considered a very fine poem, ma'am."

"Yes, pretty or fine-that's what Mr. Robert Smith called it; though I think, if 'tis a comedy, it shouldn't be called Divine."

Lucy assured the lady that the Divina Commedia was not a play in five acts with stage directions, but rather a religious poem.

"I understand your meaning," said her employer, "something like Milton, I suppose. I have heard Mr. Robert Smith remark -his remarks are so to the purpose-that Milton was a tragedy, quite. You will understand that you are to teach Priscilla