"Now, Jane," Mrs. Belknap observed pleasantly, "you may put the chambers and bathroom in nice order; and then you may sweep the stairs, the hall, and the front piazza. As a rule I should like to have all that attended to before breakfast. When Mary returns I will prepare a schedule of your work carefully arranged for the different days, so that there can be no possible misunderstanding with regard to it. Aren't you feeling well?" she added, with severe kindness, as she eyed Jane's proud little face which too plainly betrayed the wakeful hours of the previous night and the heavy, unrefreshing slumber of the early morning. "I hope you are not delicate."

Jane straightened her slim figure. "Thank you, Mrs. Belknap, I am feeling quite well," she replied coldly.

"Very well, then; you will find the brushes and dusters in this closet, and I should like you to be careful to keep them in their place.—Dear me! I wonder what that child can be doing?"

The sound of running water and the tinkle of broken glass reached their ears from an adjoining room. "Oh, you naughty boy! What will mother do with you!"

"I was dest cweanin' my teef, muzzer, an' I dwopped 'e' gwass, an' it b-w-owke!" explained the small boy earnestly. "An' all 'e' toof-powder 'pilled on 'e' floor! It's nice an' s-w-e-et, muzzer! I like toof-powder."

"Oh, Buster Belknap, you haven't been eating tooth-powder?"

"I cweaned my teef, an I dwopped 'e' gwass, an' I——"

Further explanations were rendered impossible by Mrs. Belknap's prompt and heroic measures. The naughty pink mouth was forced open and rapidly explored by maternal eyes and fingers, while Jane was required to fetch in rapid succession a glass of water, a clean towel, and a fresh pinafore.

During the process the small boy screamed and struggled manfully if ineffectually; but once washed, dried, and freshly arrayed he pranced gayly away, his countenance composed and cheerful.

Jane was by this time busily engaged in sweeping the front stairs, while she wondered miserably if any girl in the whole world could be so unhappy and friendless as herself. She wished gloomily that she had not run away from Portland Square. She condemned herself bitterly for the pride and vainglory of her hasty actions, and with it all wave after wave of desperate homesickness surged over her young soul. It was scarcely to be wondered at that dust accumulated in dark nooks and corners should escape the notice of the tear-blurred hazel eyes, nor that the unswept rugs should be thoughtlessly pushed to one side.

She was suddenly recalled to a sense of these shortcomings by Mrs. Belknap's crisp, American voice. "Why, Jane! You are not doing this work at all properly. One would think it was your first experience in sweeping!"

"It is, ma'am," said Jane hopelessly.

"Dear me! I'm afraid this will never do," went on Mrs. Belknap, with a discouraged sigh. "Can't you see the dirt? Here, let me show you!"

Jane stared at the faultless demonstration of housewifely skill with sullen resentment. In her own eyes she seemed to have sunken to a plane infinitely beneath that occupied by Susan, the housemaid in the Portland Square mansion. Susan, at least, knew how to do her work thoroughly and well.

"Now, Jane, will you try again?" asked Mrs. Belknap, pleasantly conscious of a most praiseworthy patience and self-control. "I am sure you can sweep down these stairs properly, if you try, and if you will put your mind upon what you are doing. Then these rugs—I think I told you to take them out of doors to brush. They are quite filled with dust and germs, I dare say."

Mrs. Belknap appeared to expect some sort of reply to this serious arraignment, for she eyed Jane searchingly.

"You didn't mention the rugs, ma'am," said poor Jane, with an uncontrollable quiver of her mutinous mouth; "but I will take them out, if you would like me to."

As she bore her burden through the kitchen Mrs. Whittaker suspended her monotonous labors to remark: "My! I wouldn't stir a foot to clean them rugs, if I was you. That's man's work. Mis' Radford—her 'at I was tellin' you wanted a girl—hires a man to clean the rugs every Thursday. 'Tain't no more'n right, neither!"

The sun was shining cheerfully out of doors, and a brisk wind was hurrying the big, white clouds across the April sky. In spite of herself the clean, wholesome air and active exercise restored Jane's spirits. "I'll soon earn enough money to pay my passage back to England," she told herself, "and then—I can easily get a place as governess somewhere."

The capricious breeze whipped her brown hair in clouds across her eyes, quite blinding her to the approach of the stout, rubicund, showily dressed person who paused to stare curiously at Jane before entering the kitchen door.

This individual was discovered in close consultation with Mrs. Whittaker as Jane passed through the kitchen.

"That's what I tol' 'er," the laundress was remarking plaintively, as she passed a succession of dripping articles through the wringer, "Mary won't never stan' another girl in 'er kitchen, I says, an' it'll likely lose me a day a week besides. It ain't right to take the bread out o' my pore childern's mouths to put into hern; that it ain't!"

Mrs. Belknap was investing her child in coat and cap, with a somewhat worried expression on her pretty face, as Jane reËntered the hall. "Please don't talk to Mrs. Whittaker any more than you can help, Jane," she said seriously. "I think it hinders her in her work."

"I haven't spoken to the woman, ma'am," replied Jane, justly indignant. "I can't help it if she talks to me; but I'm sure I'm not interested in what she says."

"You shouldn't answer me in that tone, Jane," advised Mrs. Belknap warmly. "Oh, I do believe Mary has come back!"

"Yis, mum; I've come back; but I ain't sure as I'll stay," announced a rich Irish voice from the door.

"O Mary! where have you been? I didn't know what to think when I found you were gone again."

"Well, mum, you hadn't no more'n turned the corner before the telephone bell rang. It was me cousin in Tompkinsville. 'O Mary MacGrotty,' she says, whin she heard my voice, 'Aunt Bridget's tuk awful bad,' she says; 'you must come to wanst!' 'I'll come,' I says, 'an' stay wid yez just wan hour! I've me dinner to get,' I says, 'an' me leddy's out.' But whin I got to me cousin's house I found me aunt in strong convulsions. 'Sure, an' you won't have the heart to lave 'er like this,' they all says to me; an' so I stayed the night. She's some better this mornin', the saints be praised; but I guess I'll be goin' back, as I see you've help a-plinty."

"O Mary!" Mrs. Belknap said earnestly, "I want you to stay. I've hired Jane to help me with Buster, and she'll wait at table besides and do the upstairs sweeping. You'll find it much easier."

Miss MacGrotty folded her fat arms and surveyed Jane with coldly critical eyes. "If I'd a known you was wantin' a sicond gurl, I cud 'a' got you my niece—me brother's youngest daughter, Annie. She's a lovely worker an' used to childern. Where did you git the loikes o' her," she added, with a scornful toss of her plumed head.

"From an agency in New York," replied Mrs. Belknap, with a conciliatory mildness of demeanor which astonished Jane. "I think you'll find Jane a pleasant help and companion, and Jane, I hope you'll get along nicely with Mary. And now that you've finished laying down the rugs, Jane, won't you put on your hat and go out with Buster. He's in the side yard; but I fear he'll run away if he's left to himself too long."

When Jane came down from her attic room attired for the street Mrs. Belknap stopped her to say pointedly: "You've forgotten your apron, Jane; you'll find a clean one in the top drawer of the dining-room closet."

Poor Jane was quite unaware of the subtle psychological processes which contributed to her feeling of loathing for that innocent and spotless article of attire. But the apron appeared to be the last straw added to the already intolerable burden of her acute discomfort. Her pretty face was clouded and gloomy as she walked slowly across the muddy road in pursuit of the brilliant red tam perched on Master Belknap's curly head.

Mrs. Belknap, watching from an upper window, frowned and shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know whether it will pay to bother with that girl," she murmured. "I'm sure I haven't experienced a peaceful moment since she came, so far; but perhaps I can train her if I am patient."

The training process presently called for a fresh rebuke, with copious explanatory notes and commentaries, when Jane returned to the house half an hour later bearing Master Belknap, who was screaming and kicking with all the pent-up energy of a young cyclone.

"What is the matter with Buster, Jane?" demanded his mother excitedly, as she ran hastily down the front stairs to receive the two.

"He wanted to play in the muddy water with another little boy named Buster Bliss," replied Jane, quite breathless with her exertions; "and when I asked him not to get wet, he threw mud at me and at the other child; then I thought best to bring him home."

"Oh, I don't like him to play with that Bliss child at all; he's a very rude boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Belknap. "I meant to have told you about that, Jane. Stop crying, darling, and let mother wipe your tears—poor little sweetheart; his hands are as cold as ice, and—why, Jane, his sleeves are wringing wet, and covered with mud; and his feet, too! dear, dear!"

"Yes, ma'am," said Jane, "he would play in the water; that is why I carried him home. He sat right down in the mud, ma'am."

"But why did you allow it? Really, Jane, I can see that you are not at all used to children. Have you ever had the care of one before? One has to manage, you know."

Jane made no reply. And Mrs. Belknap did not seem to notice the omission in the strenuous process of rehabilitation which immediately ensued.

Jane stood meekly by, supplying the needful articles one by one. When all was over and the child released from his mother's fond arms, with a rapturous kiss, she ventured upon a single question.

"When Master Buster says he 'won't' what am I to do, ma'am?"

Mrs. Belknap leaned back in her chair with a far-away look in her bright eyes. Finally she replied: "You must contrive not to have him say 'won't' to you, Jane. It requires infinite tact and patience to care for a high-spirited child like Buster. Of course, I could not allow you to punish him in any way. I do not believe in corporal punishment; and even if I approved of it, I should never relegate it to other hands."

"And about the other children, ma'am; I noticed several in the neighborhood while I was out. There was another very rude child named Buster Yates—at least the little girl who was with him said so—I couldn't help wondering——"

"About what, Jane?" asked Mrs. Belknap indulgently. "I suppose everything in America is quite new and strange to you," she added rather proudly; "I shall always be glad to explain what you do not understand."

"Would you mind telling me why so many little boys in America are called—Buster? It's a very curious name. I never heard it in England."

Mrs. Belknap laughed heartily. "That's very easily explained," she said. "It is really a nickname taken from a series of humorous pictures in one of the newspapers. Quite possibly people are overdoing it," she added meditatively.

Jane looked mystified.

"Our Buster's name is really Everett Livingstone, and the Bliss child is Ralph, I believe; and Mrs. Yates's little boy is named Frederick. The Caldwells call their Arthur 'Buster,' and in town the Elwells and the Farleys and—yes, ever so many others have 'Busters.' It must have struck you as being very singular."

"Yes, Mrs. Belknap," said Jane pointedly. "It did."

As John Everett was returning from the city that night, and many nights thereafter, he found himself dwelling with singular intentness on the piquant face of his sister's English maid; it seemed to look out at him wistfully from the damp folds of his evening paper, and to haunt the twilight seclusion of the ferryboat deck upon which he was accustomed to tramp many a breezy mile in his daily trips across New York's spacious harbor.

John Everett was a graduate of Yale and a budding lawyer, employed in a down-town law office. He had unhesitatingly expended every cent of a slender patrimony in obtaining his education, and at present was in the hopeful position of a strong swimmer striking out unhampered for a distant shore. He fully expected to reach that shore—some time; but a man swimming for his life in the deep and perilous current of an untried profession has no business to dwell upon the alluring vision of any woman's face. That the woman of his shy boyhood dreams was waiting for him on that far-off shore, he felt reasonably sure; but even this conviction could not prevent him from feeling sorry for Jane. She was struggling in deep water, too, and would she—could she reach the shore in safety, unless some one——

"I am a fool!" John Everett told himself vigorously, and squared his broad shoulders to the bracing ocean wind, which blew damp and salt from the vasty deeps outside the Hook.

Half an hour later he came upon Jane at the corner, whither she had been sent to post a letter. There were half-dried tears sparkling upon her long lashes, and her mouth drooped pathetically at the corners.

"What is the trouble, Jane?" he couldn't help asking; his blue eyes said more.

Jane ignored both. "There is nothing the matter, sir," she said icily, and drew back to let him pass.