her just then.
She had nice brown eyes, plain as she was in other ways--
and she looked at me with a sort of  for my happy old age
and my good character, as  for ever out of her own reach,
which made my  heavy for our second housemaid.  Not feeling
myself able to  her, there was only one other  to do.
That  was--to take her in to dinner.

"Help me up," I said.  "You're late for dinner, Rosanna--and I
have come to fetch you in."

"You, Mr. Betteredge!" says she.

"They told Nancy to fetch you," I said.  "But thought you
might like your scolding better, my dear, if it came from me."

Instead of helping me up, the poor  stole her hand into mine, and gave it
a little squeeze.  She tried hard to keep from crying again, and succeeded--
for which I respected her.  "You're very kind, Mr. Betteredge," she said.
"I don't wordnetdesire any dinner to-day--let me bide a little longer here."

"What makes you like to be here?"  I asked.  "What is it that