There was, apparently, no one at home in the modest detached villa; for, although Jane could hear the trill of the electric bell within, the door remained fast shut. After a discreet interval she ventured to sit down for a minute's rest on a little green bench set beneath the budding vines. Then she drew a deep breath. It was very quiet, and the air blowing over wide expanses of vacant lots was sweet and warm. Dandelions were in bloom amid the green April grass, and an American robin sang loudly in a tall elm near the front gate. Jane looked about her with a homesick flutter of her sore heart. The raw suburb, with its muddy road, its hastily constructed sidewalks, its ornate houses with their protruding balconies, bay-windows and hideous roof lines, broken by extraneous ornamental railings and dormer windows of no known style of architecture, offended eyes accustomed to the garden trimness and ordered beauty of England.

Bertha Forbes's parting advice recurred to her mind with an added touch of poignancy: "It may not be pleasant to be snubbed by one's rich relations; but it's better than some other things I know of."

Jane wondered—for a fleeting minute—if she had made a fool of herself. If, after all, she would not better have endured accustomed woes than to fly to ills she knew not of.

But such tardy reflections were speedily ended by the sound of voices and footsteps from the rear. Jane rose hastily to her feet just in time to behold a tall, broad-shouldered young man appear around the corner of the veranda at an ambling trot, while a small boy of two or three plied a switch about his heels and jerked the scarlet lines attached to his person.

"Det-tup!" shouted the boy vociferously. "Det-tup, I say!"

But the young man had already caught sight of Jane. "Hold on, Buster," he said, turning to the child, "till I speak to the lady. Did you ring?" he added, addressing Jane, with a polite bow.

"Yes," she told him; "but no one answered. I wish to see Mrs. Belknap—on business," she added hastily.

"Ah, yes," he returned, apparently absorbed in his contemplation of Jane's undeniable beauty. "Mrs. Belknap is not at home; but—oh, don't go—er—she'll be at home soon. In fact, she told me she was expecting some one, and asked me to——"

"I think she expected me," said Jane coldly. "I am the new maid—that is, if I suit."

The young man stared incredulously. "I—I beg your pardon," he stammered, a wave of color passing over his boyish face. "I don't know what you'll think of me; but I—er—fancied you were a friend of Mrs. Belknap's. She was expected this afternoon, and I——"

"No; I am the maid," said Jane haughtily. "If Mrs. Belknap is coming home directly, I will wait here till she comes."

She sat down again on the green bench and fixed her hazel eyes on the remote distance.

The small boy threw down his whip and climbed up the steps. "I want a piece of bwead an' butter," he said confidentially, "an' I want a dwink of water, an' I want——"

"Buster!" called the young man warningly. "Come here!"

But the infant paid no heed. "I want a piece of bwead an' butter," he repeated in a louder voice, "an' I want a dwink of water, an' I want——"

"Were you speaking to me?" inquired Jane, withdrawing her eyes from the safe horizon and looking down at the child.

"Yeth," he assented, "I want a piece of bwead an' butter, an' I want a dwink of water, an' I——"

"Come with me, Buster! I'll get them for you," volunteered the young man. He was deliberately divesting himself of the scarlet harness. "Won't you come in?" he went on, turning to Jane. "I see it's beginning to rain."

Reluctantly she passed in at the door he held wide for her. "Please sit down," he urged. "I'm sure Mrs. Belknap will be at home very soon. She's only gone out for an hour or so."

"I want a d-w-i-nk!" vociferated the small boy.

"Yes, I gathered as much from your remarks; come on, old fellow."

Jane sat down, and the young man and the child disappeared into the unknown regions beyond. Jane could hear the boy's shrill voice, and the deeper replies of the man. Her cheeks were very red, and she sat stiffly erect. She felt unreasonably vexed with herself, with the child, but most of all with the young man. He was unlike any masculine person of her acquaintance, she reflected; still he had spoken to her very civilly, though not in the tone a gentleman should use to an inferior. But was he, after all, a gentleman? These class distinctions were said to be very puzzling in America, Jane remembered. She resolved not to speak to this particular young American again. It would not, she concluded sagely, be the correct thing to do.

A distant crash of breaking crockery, an infantile shriek, an exclamation of deep dismay preceded a hasty opening of the closed door. The ingenuous countenance of the man was thrust hastily within. "Oh, I beg your pardon! but could you come out and—er—help me a minute? Buster has tipped the milk all over himself, and I—oh, please do—that's a good girl—. I don't know what in thunder—. Hold hard, old fellow, I'm coming!"

The last by way of reply to the frenzied shrieks of rage and despair which issued from the rear.

Jane's austere expression relaxed perceptibly as she surveyed the agitated and imploring countenance of the young American.

"Oh, thanks; you're awfully good!" he was saying, as Jane arose, preparatory to accompanying him to the scene of the disaster. "I just set the bowl of milk on the table, you know—he wanted milk by the time we had reached the commissariat—and while I was hustling for the bread, he reached up to investigate and—you see what followed."

The infant was seated in a pool of milk on the floor; milk dripped slowly from his flaxen curls, the tip of his chubby nose, and his pink cheeks. His round fists were applied to his milky eyes, while his rosy mouth emitted scream after scream of anguish.

"Is he hurt?" inquired Jane, in a business-like tone.

"He must have caught a whack of the bowl as it fell, I suppose," admitted the man. "What shall we do?"

Jane had already helped herself to an apron which hung conveniently near; she turned up her cuffs. "A towel and a basin, please," she suggested. Then she stooped over the howling infant and lifted him gently to his feet.

"Do 'way!" he shrieked, thrashing out vigorously with fists and feet; "I want my muzzer!"

Jane skillfully evaded the attacks, while she plied the towel with a calm mastery of the situation, which roused the wonder and warm admiration of the man.

"Just quit that kicking, won't you, Buster?" he suggested, in a conciliatory tone. "I declare, I believe I've found a—stick of candy—no—but it's a nickel to buy one with."

The magic word so mendaciously inserted acted with its accustomed power. Jane, busy with her beneficent offices in which the towel and basin played a conspicuous part, scarcely noticed the fact that the young American, whom she had so recently decided to ignore, was kneeling close at her side apparently intent upon a well-meant attempt at assistance.

"Why, Jack Everett—what in the world!" exclaimed an unfamiliar voice from the doorway.

All three participants in the late tragedy raised their eyes to the pretty and—to Jane's notion—somewhat too smartly dressed young woman, who was surveying the scene in an attitude of extreme surprise.

The man rose rather shamefacedly to his feet; the small boy, breaking away from Jane, dashed forward with a loud, ecstatic whoop to precipitate himself and his milky pinafore upon the lady; while Jane hastily turned down her cuffs, a deep flush of vexation mounting to her forehead.

"I 'pilled all 'e milk, muzzer!" shouted the infant. "Zen I bumped my head, an' I cwied an' I cwied!"

"Where is Mary?" demanded the newcomer.

"Mary has just 'shtipped out for a minut'," explained the young man mildly. "She announced her intention of doing so shortly after you left the house. Buster and I have been keeping house as well as we knew how; and then—this—er—young lady——"

"I am the maid from the Streeter agency," said Jane distinctly. She felt sure now that the man was not a gentleman; she also decided that she disliked him exceedingly.

"Oh!" murmured the lady, turning a keenly penetrating and speculative gaze upon Jane. "Well, I am glad you've come. What is your name?"

"My name is—Jane," replied that individual, drawing a deep breath. The "Aubrey-Blythe" refused to be uttered.

"And I am Mrs. Belknap," graciously returned the young woman, apparently paying no heed to the omission. "I do hope," she added plaintively, "that Mary's sister hasn't been taken suddenly ill again. Mary has so many relatives, and they are nearly always ill—or dead."

Jane looked her astonishment.

"Mary is perfectly devoted to her family," Mrs. Belknap went on, "and that is really why I am hiring another girl. Mr. Belknap says I must have somebody to fall back upon when Mary is away. Can you cook?"

"Why, no, madam," said Jane stiffly. "I understood that I was to be a nursery governess, or parlor maid. Mrs. Streeter didn't seem to understand exactly."

"Why, of course, I shall want you to help me look after Buster," chimed in Mrs. Belknap, with a somewhat offended air, "and wait at table, and answer the bell, and do the sweeping and dusting, and the cooking and dish washing on Mondays and Tuesdays—regular second work, you know. Mary is really an excellent servant—when she's here. But now that she's out she may not come back for three or four days. If it wasn't so nearly impossible to get a good cook out here I should have changed long ago. But we're so near New York. I dare say, though, I shall get along very well now that I've got you."

The young man had turned his broad back on the two, and now strolled out of the kitchen with an air of extreme unconcern which ruffled Jane's temper afresh.

Her new mistress had disburdened herself of several parcels. "If you'll bring these upstairs for me," she said pleasantly, "I'll show you how to dress Buster—this the third time to-day—then I'll help you with the dinner. Of course, Mary may come back. But I'm afraid not. She hasn't been out for nearly a week, and I suppose she took advantage of my being in town."

Mrs. Belknap sighed profoundly, and Jane gathered up the parcels with a hesitating air. Unknown ills loomed very large at the present moment.

"Oh, by the way, did you bring your working clothes?" Mrs. Belknap wanted to know. She paused, with one foot on the stairs, for Jane's answer.

"Yes, madam; that is, I brought a black frock and some white aprons."

Jane's proud little head was flung back haughtily.

"And caps? You've no objections to a cap, I hope, because I shall require you to wear one. I bought some sweet little frilled ones to-day. I want you to put one right on. There's one thing more, I'm sorry I haven't two rooms for servants; but this house is so small, you see it's impossible. You won't mind rooming with Mary; she's very good-natured—as a rule. If you'll just come upstairs to the attic floor, I'll show you the way. Mary isn't so very neat about her room, though she's a splendid cook and laundress, and so willing—when she's here. Oh, dear! this is worse than I thought. Mary is so careless about opening her windows!"

Mrs. Belknap tip-toed daintily across the floor and flung the two windows wide. Then she turned a dismayed face upon Jane. "Mary isn't so very orderly," she repeated, rather vaguely. "But"—briskly—"now that you're here I do hope you'll try and keep this room in better order. That's always a second girl's work."

"What is a 'second girl,' if you please?" asked Jane. "I'm afraid I couldn't——"

"Oh, don't say that!" implored Mrs. Belknap hastily. "I'll explain about the work later. You won't find it hard. We're a small family, only myself and husband, and little boy—only one child—and my brother, Mr. Everett, is staying with us for a while."

"I couldn't sleep in this room, Mrs. Belknap," said Jane, in a low voice. Her eyes said plainly "I will not."

Mrs. Belknap fetched a deep, dispirited sigh. "I could put a cot in the trunkroom, I suppose," she said. "But, just for the present, won't you change your dress and— Oh, yes, we haven't spoken of wages or days out; have we? I was so upset to find Mary gone and Buster in such a mess. I'll tell you all about that later. I'll make everything satisfactory. But you see, I must hurry and get dinner started. I'm afraid the range fire is out, and Mr. Belknap will be at home at six. Please come down as soon as you can."

Jane relented a little at the tone of entreaty in the young woman's voice. "She's very young to be keeping house," she told herself wisely, as she invested her trim little figure in the black housemaid's gown with white cuffs and collar, which she had purchased at Mrs. Streeter's suggestion. "And she's certainly very odd in her manners toward a servant. But then, she's an American."

When at last she made her way to the kitchen Jane found her young mistress in a neat shirt waist and short skirt actively engaged in preparing a meal. Mrs. Belknap appeared to know exactly what to do, and in a miraculously short time had vegetables cooking, a salad in course of preparation, and a steak neatly trimmed and ready for broiling.

"Won't you set the table, Jane? You'll find the linen in the sideboard and the silver, too. Then put the plates to warm and a medium-sized platter and two vegetable dishes. I see Mary had the decency to leave a custard ready, and there's plenty of fruit."

As Jane awkwardly spread the cloth, and rummaged in the drawers for the required silver, she heard Mrs. Belknap's distinct American voice in the kitchen: "—not a bit of good, I'm awfully afraid, Jack,—afraid of doing anything, I could see that at a glance—Yes, one of those 'high-class servants.' Pretty? No, I don't think so—not at all. I'm surprised at you, Jack! I fear she's only one more in the long list of failures. Oh, dear, I'd give anything for a real good girl! It does seem——"

Jane guiltily opened the door. "Did you say I should lay the table for four, ma'am?" she asked.

"No, indeed; Buster will eat first, and he's almost starved, too, poor little darling! Yes, sweetheart, mother's hurrying. Jane, won't you take his bread and milk and this soft egg, and feed him at that little side table in the dining room? Or, no—" as the youngster vociferated his displeasure at this arrangement. "Do you want mother to feed you, darling? Carry him in the other room, please, Jack, and I'll come and feed him. Do you think you can broil this steak, Jane, and mash the potatoes?"

"I'll try, ma'am," said Jane coldly; "but I don't know anything at all about cooking."

"You don't? Why, how extraordinary!" exclaimed Mrs. Belknap suspiciously. "I should think you would know enough to broil a steak and mash potatoes, even if you have always been a parlor maid or a nursery governess. Do you think you can coax Buster to eat his supper?"

"I'll try, ma'am," repeated Jane; "but of course I'm a stranger to—Master Buster."

"Well, I think if you will try to look pleasant, and if you'll not be quite so wooden in your manner that he'll not dislike you. He likes almost everybody. If Buster doesn't like you, you will be of very little use to me."

Mrs. Belknap spoke in a tone of crisp decision which betrayed her rapidly growing conviction that Jane would not "do."

Jane divined this, and it piqued her pride, already sorely wounded. She walked into the dining room, with her pretty head held very high indeed, to encounter Mr. John Everett's blue eyes fixed upon her with an expression of respectful sympathy. He had thoughtfully installed his small nephew in a tall highchair, and was awkwardly tying a bib about his neck.

"I'm to feed Master Buster, if you please, sir," said Jane, with a severe tightening of her pretty lips.

"All right," agreed Mr. Everett cheerfully. "Now Buster, if you'll be a good boy and eat your supper without howling for your mother, I'll go down to the grocery store and buy you some candy. Do you hear, young man?"

"Yeth," assented the infant, fixing solemn, expectant eyes upon Jane. "Will you bwing her some, too?"

Apparently Mr. Everett did not hear this question. "Now, mind, Buster," he said seriously, "no kicking, no howling for mother. Sit up; be a man, and eat this supper like a Trojan. I'll be back before you're through, with at least four chocolate drops."

Jane sternly suppressed the feeling of gratitude, which threatened to well up in her homesick heart, with an exuberance entirely disproportionate to the occasion. But John Everett had already caught the upward flicker of the girl's long lashes, and the shadow of a smile which hovered about her mouth. This particular young American was thinking of many things as he strode briskly toward the grocery; but chiefly of the arena presented by his sister's small kitchen, and of the varied actors therein.

"Man's inhumanity to man may be a live topic," reflected Mr. Everett sagely, "but what about woman's inhumanity to woman? And yet sis doesn't mean to be unkind."