Bag and Baggage/Priscilla Pipkin

PRISCILLA PIPKIN "And the long carpet rose along the gusty floor."
PRISCILLA PIPKIN came on a windy evening and left on a windy morning. All night I heard the gale flapping in my blind, and dreamed of flying skirts, and at breakfast Priscilla was gone. There was no lamp alight, as usual, under an empty kettle; no stove-brush on my chair; no toast-rack at all (Priscilla would occasionally put my letters in it and post the toast under my bedroom door). Priscilla Pipkin, in short, had disappeared, like the baseless fabric of a vision, and left not a rack behind her.
Mrs. Hoskins, my landlady, when I rang her up to explain, explained. She had always mistrusted the girl, she said; she wore such small boots. There was an artful hussy hid somewhere behind that print apron. Priscilla, it appeared, had come straight down from her attic that morning and give her notice—not a month's, or a week's, or a day's, if you please; but had just up'd with her nose like a silk pairasole, and walked out of the house as grand as my lady. It was possible, Mrs. Hoskins thought, that a letter she had received by the early post had inspired her to this astonishing decision. But, whatever the case, Prisilla

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