In the retired village of Deane, in Yorkshire, lived for many years one of those unfortunate females ycleped an old maid; a title which generally exposes the possessor to every species of contempt, however inoffensive, or even worthy, the individual may be, thus unluckily designated.

Mrs. Martin, the lady alluded to, was certainly one of those more "sinned against than sinning;" for malice itself could not accuse her of one uncharitable thought, word, or action: and even her enemies, if enemies she had, must have acknowledged, that "Poor Mrs. Martin had a good heart," however inferior she might be in understanding to those, who affected to despise her unassuming merits. She was one of those worthy good people, who never did a wicked thing, and never said a wise one; and who, therefore, are seldom mentioned without some epithet of contemptuous pity by those, who at least wish to be considered of an entirely opposite character. She lived in a contented mediocrity, "aboon distress below envy," humble, and good natured, with a most happy temperament, both moral and physical; in friendship with all the world, and devoutly believing all the world in friendship with her, and indeed in that respect at least her judgment did not err; for few people were more generally beloved than "Poor Mrs. Martin." She always had a ready laugh for the awkward jests of her neighbours, and to the distressed she as willingly gave her equally ready tear.—Her income was extremely limited, yet she still contrived to spare a mite to those still poorer than herself, and to her trifling donations she added such cordially interested enquiries, and such well intentioned advice, that her mercy was indeed "twice blest."—To her other good qualities she joined that of being a most excellent manager. All the village acknowledged, that "Poor Mrs. Martin's sweetmeats, and poor Mrs. Martin's bacon, were the best in the place;" nor were there many seasons so unproductive in her little garden, as to deprive her of the pride and pleasure of bestowing a bottle of currant wine, or a pot of raspberry jam, on her more opulent though less thrifty neighbour.—Her house, which was in the middle of the village, was only distinguished from those around it by its superior neatness: a court, about the dimensions of a modern dinner table, which she facetiously termed her pleasure ground, divided it from the principal, indeed the only street, and was separated from it by a few white rails;—a little walk curiously paved in different coloured stones was the approach to the hall door, and the grass on each side was ornamented by a circular bed bordered with reversed oyster shells, and containing each a few rose trees. The house boasted of one window corresponding to each flower bed on the ground floor; and of three above stairs, the centre one of which, being Mrs. Martin's own bed room, was ornamented with an old fender painted green, which served as a balcony to support three flourishing geraniums, and a stock July flower, that "wasted its sweetness on the desert air" out of a broken tea pot, which had been carefully treasured by this thrifty housewife as a substitute for a flower pot. The hall door, which always stood open in fine weather, was decorated with a clean but useless brass knocker, and a conspicuous rush mat; whilst the narrow passage, to which it led, presented, as its sole furniture, a huge clock, on which Mrs. Martin's only attendant Peggy often boasted no spider was ever known to rest, and whose gigantic case filled the whole space from wall to wall. The left hand window, whose dark brown shutters were carefully bolted back on the outside, illuminated a kitchen, where cheerful cleanliness amply compensated for want of size;—opposite to it was the only parlour, of the same proportions, and of equal neatness; a small Pembroke table, that, with change of furniture, served the purpose of dinner, breakfast, or card table; white dimity curtains, and a blind that was for any thing rather than use, as it was never closed; half a dozen chairs, that once had exhibited resplendent ornaments of lilies and roses, painted in all the colours of the rainbow, but whose honours had long since faded under the powerful and unremitting exertions of Peggy's scrubbing brush; a corner cupboard, the top shelf of which with difficulty contained a well polished japanned tea tray, where a rosy Celadon, in a brilliant scarlet coat, sighed most romantically at the feet of Lavinia in a plume of feathers; and the best cups and saucers, ranged in regular order, filled the ranks below;—a book shelf, which, besides containing a Bible, Sir Charles Grandison, a few volumes of the Spectator, and occasionally a well thumbed novel from Mr. Salter's circulating library, was also the repository for various stray articles, such as the tea caddy, Mrs. Martin's knitting, and receipt book, transcribed by her niece Lucy; and lastly, a barbarous copy of Bunbury's beautiful print of Jenny Grey, the highly prized, and only production of Lucy's needle, while attending Miss Slater's genteel "academy for young ladies," composed the furniture of this little room.

But its chief ornament, and Mrs. Martin's greatest pride (next to Lucy herself), was a glass door, that opened into her demesne: a plot of ground, containing about an acre and a half, which was kitchen garden, flower garden, and orchard, all in one. This glass door had been a present of young Mr. Mordaunt's, in whose company Mrs. Martin had often undesignedly lamented, that the sole entrance to her garden was through the scullery, and, on her return from her only visit to London, about two years before this narration commences, she had been most agreeably surprised by the improvement in question.—Various and manifold were the speculations, to which this little piece of good natured gallantry had given rise in the simple mind of Mrs. Martin.—"Indeed, indeed, she never thought of his doing such a thing! so generous! so kind! and then his manner was always so obliging and polite; it could not certainly be for herself that he took the trouble of ordering the glass door; and she remembered very well, when he called after their return from London, that he said he was very glad to see a town life had agreed so well with Lucy, though Mrs. Crosbie had very good naturedly said, she thought she didn't look half so well as before she went. To be sure, she never saw him talk much to Lucy, but then she was so shy!"—Mrs. Martin had been standing for some minutes at this same glass door, one fine evening in July, indulging in a similar reverie, when it was suddenly interrupted by the abrupt entrance of Lucy, who, with as much concern in her countenance as her vacant unmeaning features could express, exclaimed—"La! Aunt, he won't come to-night after all!"—"Not come, child!" answered Mrs. Martin, "why, I never expected he would."—"Not expect Mr. Brown?" returned Lucy, in a tone something between anger and surprise; "Not expect Mr. Brown? why I'm sure he'd come if he could, and you'd never ask the Lucases without him." "No, indeed, my dear, I would not;" replied Mrs. Martin, totally unconscious that her first answer had alluded to the subject of her own thoughts, not to the constant object of poor Lucy's—"He is a well behaved, sober young man, and very attentive to the shop; but why won't he come to-night?"—"He just rode up as I was standing at the gate with this little bottle of rose water, which he brought then, because, he said, he had to go to squire Thornbull's to see the cook, and he didn't think he could be back for tea do what he would—I'm sure I wish Mr. Lucas would attend his own patients."—"Well, Lucy, I suppose the rest will soon be here; do just set down the tray, my love, whilst I go and see if Peggy is doing the Sally Lunn right." Poor Lucy proceeded to her task with unwonted gloom, having first stopped to take one more smell of the rose water before she placed it on the ready book shelf; and so slow was she in her movements, that the tea table was scarcely arranged, when she heard her aunt accost her visitors out of the kitchen window, with "How d'ye do Mrs. Crosbie, how d'ye do Mrs. Lucas; beautiful evening; thank you kindly; I'm quite well, and Lucy's charming; pray step in Mr. Crosbie—give me your hat; Mr. Lucas, I'll hang your cane up by the clock here; sit down my dear Nanny, I hope your shoes are dry—indeed, I don't think they can be wet; we've scarcely had a drop of rain this fortnight.—Peggy! bring in the kettle."

And now, what with the disposal of the bonnets, the arrangement of the chairs, and the repetition of observations on the weather, and inquiries after the health of each individual present, the time was fully occupied, till the arrival of Peggy, with a bright copper tea kettle in one hand, and a well buttered, smoking hot Sally Lunn in the other, put an end to the confusion of tongues, and assembled the party in temporary silence round the tea table.—But Mrs. Martin's natural loquacity, added to her incessant desire to be civil, soon induced her to interrupt the momentary calm, and, while she spread her snow white pocket handkerchief on her knees, as a preparation for her attack on the Sally Lunn, she addressed her neighbour, the attorney, with—"Well, Mr. Crosbie, what did you think of our sermon last evening; it was a delightful one, wasn't it?"—"Yes, a very good, plain sermon, Mrs. Martin; but, with all deference to your better judgment, Mrs. Martin, I think your friend Mr. Temple doesn't show as much learning in the pulpit as he might do."—"Learning!" quoth his amicable spouse, "I never can believe that man is a learned man; I could make as good a sermon myself."—"Non constat, my love," replied Mr. Crosbie; "though I often think you would have done very well for a parson, you are so fond of always having the last word." Probably the gentle Mrs. Crosbie would have given the company a specimen of her talents for lecturing, had she not acquired a habit of never attending to what her husband said: she had therefore, fortunately, no doubt, during his speech, profited by the opportunity of overhearing Mrs. Martin's and Mrs. Lucas's discussion, respecting the appearance at church the evening before of the party from Webberly House, consisting of Mrs. Sullivan and her two elder daughters, the Miss Webberlys.—"I declare, I wasn't sure they were come down yet," said Mrs. Martin, "till I saw their two great footmen bring their prayer books into church, and their cushions; Mrs. Sullivan looks quite plump and well."—"Yes, indeed, she looks remarkably well;" answered the assenting Mrs. Lucas.—"Well!" retorted Mrs. Crosbie—"I think she is going into a dropsy; her face is for all the world like a Cheshire cheese."—"It certainly does look as if it was a little swelled," replied the complacent Mrs. Lucas—"Dear me," rejoined Mr. Lucas, "I must certainly call at Webberly House, and inquire after the health of the family; I thought they never left town till August: perhaps they are come down for change of air."—"And Lucy and I must pay our respects to them too, they are always so very polite."—"They are never very civil, I take it," said Mrs. Crosbie; "I believe, in my heart, they would never come near their country neighbours, but to show off their town airs on them."—"Well, for my part," observed Mr. Crosbie, "with due deference be it spoken, I think town airs should be laid by for town people, kept in usum jus habentis, for those who understand 'em."—"That's what you never could do, my dear," replied the lady.—Mrs. Lucas, as usual, slipping in an assenting nod to every successive observation from each person, while she as unremittingly attended to the tea and cake. "Well, I'm sure, at all events," said her daughter Nancy, "they are very genteel: what a lovely green bonnet the little Miss Webberly had on!—she's the eldest, I believe."—"I'm sure, if the bonnet was lovely, the face under it wasn't; the two together are for all the world like a full blown daffodil in its green case."

Notwithstanding Mrs. Crosbie had thus taken occasion to express her dislike of the family in general, she was not less ready than the rest of the little circle to pay her annual visit at Webberly House; and, as all were anxious to wait on the ladies in question, either from motives of civility, or interest, or curiosity, it was speedily settled, that the party should adjourn thither on the following morning. All particulars of their dress, their conveyance, &c., being finally arranged, the four seniors of Mrs. Martin's visitors sat down to penny whist, while she seated herself at the corner of the card table, ready to cut in, snuff candles, or make civil observations between the deals.

Lucy, and Nancy Lucas, strolled into the garden, ostensibly to pull currants, but, in reality, to talk over Mr. Brown, the apothecary's apprentice, and Mr. Slater's hopeful son and heir, whose professed admiration of Miss Lucas had lately been eclipsed by a flash of military ardour, that had induced him to enter into the Yorkshire militia. At length Mrs. Martin's fears of the damp grass and evening dew induced the two eternal friends to return to the parlour, where the fortunate attainment of an odd trick, by finishing the rubber, broke up the little party, who dispersed with much the same bustle with which they had entered. While Mrs. Martin pursued her retreating visitors as far as the white pales, with renewed offers of a glass of currant wine, hopes and fears relative to the company catching cold, and assurances that she and Lucy would certainly be ready before eleven o'clock for Mr. Lucas, with a profusion of thanks for his offer of calling for them in his gig.