I suppose he was right, being a very clever gentleman who fills the church to crowding; but I think I should have understood him better if I had not been very hungry at the time, in consequence of my own station in life being nothing but plain needlewoman.
March 4th.

Mary Mallinson came down to my room to take a cup of tea with me.

I read her bits of Robert's letter, to show her that, if she has her troubles, I have mine too; but I could not succeed in cheering her.
She says she is born to misfortune, and that, as long back as she can remember, she has never had the least morsel of luck to be thankful for.
I told her to go and look in my glass, and to say if she had nothing to be thankful for then; for Mary is a very pretty girl, and would look still prettier if she could be more cheerful and dress neater.

However, my compliment did no good.

She rattled her spoon impatiently in her tea-cup, and said, "If I was only as good a hand at needle-work as you are, Anne, I would change faces with the ugliest girl in London." "Not you!" says I, laughing.