"_She'll_ never learn to wash." Charlotte, however, soon fell diligently to work, and really seemed as if she would tear her arms off, with her violent exertions.
After a time, supposing that she must feel a good deal fatigued and exhausted with the unaccustomed labor, I did what it was at that day very much the fashion to do,--what, at home, I had always seen done on washing-day,--what, in short, I imagine was then a general custom among housekeepers.

I went to the dining-room closet, intending to give Charlotte a glass of wine or brandy and water.

My "cupboard" proved to be in the state of the luckless "Mother Hubbard's"-- nothing of the kind could I find but a bottle of orange shrub.
Of this I poured out a wineglassful, and, carrying it out, offered it to the woman.

She took it with an expression of great pleasure; but, in carrying it to her lips, she stopped short, and exclaiming, "Whiskey!" immediately returned it to me.

I would still have pressed it upon her; for, in my inexperience, I really believed it was a cordial she needed; but, pointing to her crucifix, she shook her head and returned to her work.
I received this as a lesson more powerful than twenty sermons.