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The Master of the House & His Maid
The master of the house, Mr. Wilson Mayes, watched it unfold. He was finally compelled to speak. "Miss Reid, what on earth are you doing?"

What she was doing was indeed a puzzle. Her maid's cap slightly askance, she had stepped to the divan and pulled her apron, black dress, and petticoat up to her waist. She then bent over and placed her arms on the divan. Wilson gazed in surprise at her womanly derriere, now covered only by thin cotton drawers.

"Oh, ye'll be wantin' to punish me, sir," she cried, looking over her shoulder at him. "Ay, and I deserve it. Me clumsy hands, I blame. But faith, I won't shirk from takin' me medicine. Tain't no more than I warrant."

The man glanced over to broken glass shards on the parlor floor, all that remained of a Waterford vase that Miss Reid, the downstairs maid, had dropped as she was cleaning it. He then looked back at her plump bottom.

"Now really, Miss Reid," he said, "that isn't necessary. Accidents will happen, you know."

The woman rose up, turned, and looked at her master. "Oh but sir, I feel awful, it bein' such a lovely vase, and now busted to smithereens on account o' me. If ye don't punish me, I'll just feel guilty, and fret over it the livelong day. But if ye give me the hard wallopin' I deserve, well sir, then it's over 'n done with, 'n I can go on with me cleanin'."

Wilson, a distinguished looking gentleman in his mid fifties, drew a hand down his salt and pepper goatee. He gazed at Miss Reid, who was some ten years younger than he. "Hmm. May I assume this is how you were disciplined by Sir Owen MacTavish, your previous master?"

"Ay sir. Now there was a man who could lay into a lady's bum. Me poor arse would burn for an hour."

Unfamiliar with the terms she used, Wilson was nonplussed. "I presume you are referring to parts of your anatomy, Miss Reid. But this is Brooklyn Heights, New York, not ... Where in Scotland did you say you hail from?"

"Ayrshire, sir. Ah, tis a wee bit o' heaven here on earth."

"No doubt. But you see, my wife Clara is in charge of our servants, and she believes in enlightened treatment of hired help. This is, after all, 1890; the modern age." He paused, then went on. "If only she weren't gone for the day to the stores along the Ladies' Mile over in Manhattan. Perhaps we could deduct the cost of the vase from your weekly salary."

Miss Reid's blue eyes grew wide in dismay. "Perish the thought!" she exclaimed. "With me supportin' meself and me poor sickly mum on a maid's salary? Barely enough to put bread on th' table as tis? Oh no, sir! A sound spankin' is th' way, and then we'll call it even."