Mrs. Belknap was brought up face to face with the inevitable by Mary MacGrotty, who presented herself the next morning in the door of her mistress's room. Miss MacGrotty's countenance was stern and gloomy. Her words were few and to the point.

"I ain't goin' to stay wid yez no longer," she said.

"Why, what can have happened, Mary?" Mrs. Belknap asked, with hypocritical solicitude.

Miss MacGrotty eyed her young mistress haughtily. "Sure, mum, an' you know well enough widout askin' me," she said. "There ain't no room in wan house for hur an' me."

"Do you mean Jane?"

"I do, mum; I mean Jane, wid her purty face an' her big eyes an' her foine goin's-on behind the back o' yez. It ain't fer me to worrit the life out o' yez wid tellin' you all 'at I know. But I'm sorry fer yez; that's all."

The inexperienced Mrs. Belknap fell into the artful trap with ease. "What do you mean, Mary?" she demanded anxiously.

Miss MacGrotty shrugged her shoulders. "I'll trouble yez for me money, mum," she said loftily. "I'll not make no trouble in the house."

Mrs. Belknap happily remembered her husband's counsel at this crucial moment. "Very well, Mary," she said coolly, "I will look over my account book and have the money ready for you when you have packed and put your room in order."

Miss MacGrotty threw back her head with a defiant toss. "Sure, an' I'll not be lavin' the house till I've had me rights! There's things been missed, an' I'll not have it said that Mary MacGrotty wud touch the lave of a pin!" Then of a sudden she melted into copious tears. "I've be'n that happy an' continted sinse I come to live wid you, Mis' Belknap; sure, I can't bear the thoughts of lavin' you an' Master Buster, wid the shwate little face on him. If it wasn't fer hur I'd never be thinkin' of goin'; but my feelin's has be'n hur-r-t an' trampled on till I can't bear it no more. Tell me wan thing, Mis' Belknap, wasn't we all goin' on peaceful an' happy loike before she come, wid Mis' Whittaker to wash an' sweep, an' me in the kitchen?"

Mrs. Belknap temporized weakly. "Do you mean to tell me that if I will discharge Jane, you will stay?" she said at last.

"I do, mum; an' may I cross my feet this day if I stay in the same house wid hur another week. She ain't my sort, mum!"

Still Mrs. Belknap hesitated. Jane was proving herself a most intelligent caretaker for the idolized Buster. Indeed his mother was forced to acknowledge that that young person's conduct showed a not inconspicuous improvement since he had been under the firm but gentle rule of English Jane. On the other hand, Mary's bread and rolls were faultless, her pastry and salads beyond criticism, and her laundry work exhibited a snowy whiteness and smoothness most gratifying to the eye and touch of a dainty woman like Mrs. Belknap; singularly enough, not a single MacGrotty relative had sickened or died since the advent of Jane.

This last reflection colored her next remark. "You have been much more reliable lately, Mary," she observed thoughtfully, "and we all like your cooking."

"Reliable!" echoed Miss MacGrotty warmly, "reliable? Ain't I always reliable? Why, mum, in the last place where I wuz workin' four years to the day, an' where I'd be yet on'y the leddy died—a shwate, purty leddy she wuz, too. Often's the toime I've said to meself, 'Mis' Belknap's the livin' image of hur,' I says, an' that's why I can't bear to be leavin' yez, mum. But, as I wuz sayin', Mis' Peterson she wud be sayin': 'Oh, Mary MacGrotty!' she says, 'I don't know what I'd be doin' widout you,' she says. 'You're that reliable,' she says. Of course, I've had turrible luck wid me family bein' tuk bad since I lived wid you. But, the saints be praised! they're all well an' hearty now, exceptin' me brother's youngest gurl that's bad wid her fut from bein' run over by a milk wagon. Yis, mum, a turrible accident, it wuz, mum. Hev ye looked in hur things?"

"Have I what?" faltered Mrs. Belknap.

"Looked in that gurl's trunk, mum," repeated Miss MacGrotty in a ghostly whisper. "If you ain't, you'd better; that's all."

"Oh, I shouldn't like to do that. Dear, dear! what ought I to do, anyway?"

"A workin' gurl what brags of havin' a goold watch wid a dimon' in the back, an' a locket wid pearls an' two goold rings, wan of 'em wid a foine blue stone in it, ain't honest, I sh'd say."

"Did Jane——?"

"I seen 'em wid me own eyes," affirmed Miss MacGrotty dramatically. "'Where did you git the loikes o' thim?' I says to 'er. 'They wuz giv to me,' she says, 'in me last place,' she says."

"Dear, dear!" repeated Mrs. Belknap. Then she straightened her trim figure. "You may go now, Mary; I shall be obliged to talk with Jane, and with Mr. Belknap, too. I don't wish to be unjust."

"You'd better talk to Mr. Everett, mum, whilst you're talkin'!" said Mary, with artful emphasis. "Sure, an' he's too foine a gintleman entirely to——"

"You may go to your work at once, Mary," repeated Mrs. Belknap sternly. "I will tell you to-morrow what I have decided to do." Nevertheless the last barbed arrow had found its mark in Mrs. Belknap's agitated bosom. "I wonder if Jack—could—" she murmured, her mind running rapidly back over the past weeks. He had taken the girl's part masterfully in the few half-laughing discussions which had taken place concerning the romantic fortunes of Jane. "She is a lady, sis," he had declared stoutly, "and you ought to treat her like one."

"Impossible!" she thought. Of course there couldn't be such a thing in America as the rigid class distinctions of England; still, an Everett could hardly be seriously attracted by a servant. It was, she decided, merely another case of dear old Jack's overflowing goodness and kindness of heart—a heart which seemed big enough to harbor and warm the whole world of forlorn humanity. It was, in short, "the Everett way." Margaret Belknap recalled her father's beautiful courtesy which had exhibited itself alike to the washerwoman and the wife of the millionaire. All women were sacred in the eyes of the Everett men. And a poor, sick, helpless or downtrodden woman was the object of their keenest solicitude.

Why, Jack, she remembered, had on one occasion carried Mrs. Whittaker's little girl through the mud and rain for a full block, with that melancholy personage following close at his heels, delivering fulsome panegyrics on his goodness. "And there wasn't a bit of use of it, either; the child could have walked perfectly well," Mrs. Belknap reminded herself. Jack was the dearest boy in the world—except Jimmy; but, of course, he was absurd—sometimes. All men were. It was her manifest duty to see to it that no appealingly helpless female succeeded in attaching him to her perpetual and sworn service. It was her duty; and she would do it.

This praiseworthy resolution shone keenly in her blue eyes when Jane encountered them next. Behind the resolution lurked a question. Jane answered it by asking another. "I fear you are not satisfied with my work, Mrs. Belknap," she said meekly. Somehow or other, without exactly knowing why, she had become increasingly solicitous about pleasing this pretty, clear-eyed young matron, who, it might have seemed, was not so difficult to please.

"Why, yes, Jane," Mrs. Belknap answered hesitatingly, "I am pleased with your work. You are really very neat about your sweeping and dusting, now that I have taught you how"—this with a complacent tilt of her brown head—"and you really manage surprisingly well with Buster. I think he positively likes you—the darling! But——"

Jane waited the outcome of that "but" with a sinking heart.

Mrs. Belknap was gazing at her hand-maiden's downcast, faintly blushing face with searching eyes. "Jane," she said at last, "Mary has given me warning."

"Do you mean that Mary is going to leave you, ma'am?"

Mrs. Belknap sighed involuntarily. "Yes; that is what I mean. I was so sorry, Jane, to hear from Mary that you two cannot live peaceably in the same house. And then——"

"What else did Mary say about me, Mrs. Belknap?" demanded Jane with kindling eyes.

"She said—. O Jane, how can I tell you? You seem such a nice girl!"

"I seem—yes, madam; but you think I am not what I seem. Well, I am not. I ought not to be doing the work of a servant in this house. I ought never to have come here." Jane threw back her pretty head and stared at Mrs. Belknap from under level lids.

Mrs. Belknap returned the look with one of startled interest. She had recalled the smuggling episode. "What—do you mean, Jane?" she asked. "You are not——"

"I am a lady," said English Jane haughtily; "and so I do not belong in anyone's servant's hall. That is what I mean."

"Oh!—a lady!" repeated Mrs. Belknap, and she smiled. "Everyone who works out in America is 'a lady.' We who employ servants are simply women. But perhaps you did not know that, Jane." She remembered her brother's emphatic assertions, and added kindly: "I have noticed Jane, that you appear somewhat above your station. But you should remember that honest work never hurts anyone's real character. Character is marred by—by something quite different. When one allows oneself to be tempted to—to take what belongs to another, for instance."

"Do you mean, Mrs. Belknap, that you think I stole the things you have missed?" demanded Jane, her hazel eyes darting fire. "Did that wicked Mary say that to you? Yes; I see that she did. And you"—with bitter anger and scorn quite impossible to convey—"believed it!"

Mrs. Belknap appeared to grow small in her chair under the direct light of the girl's indignant eyes. "I—I do not accuse you of anything," she faltered. "I wish above all things to be just to everybody concerned."

Jane was silent. She was thinking confusedly of noblesse oblige. "You told me you were not easily deceived," she said, after a long pause; "but you are. If you were not blind you would know that I am incapable of anything of the sort. But if you prefer to believe Mary because she cooks your food as you like it, I shall not complain. I cannot cook."

This random shaft hit so squarely in the bull's eye of Mrs. Belknap's wavering thought that for the moment that worthy young matron was quite overcome with confusion. Then she rallied her forces.

"Now that we have entered upon this very disagreeable conversation, Jane, we may as well come to a full understanding—if such a thing is possible," she said decidedly. "I dislike more than I can tell you mentioning the matter, because it would seem to be none of my affairs; but Mary told me that you had shown her several articles of jewelry which struck me as being—well, to say the least, as unsuited to a young girl situated as you seem to be in the world, and——"

"I never showed Mary anything that belonged to me, nor talked to her about myself," said Jane stonily. "But I will show the contents of my box to you, madam—if you have not already seen it," she added keenly.

"No—no, Jane, indeed, I have not!" denied her mistress. "I have never made a practice of looking into a servant's possessions without her knowledge, as so many housekeepers do." Mrs. Belknap was feeling thoroughly uncomfortable; quite, as she afterwards expressed it, as though she were the culprit brought to the verge of a damaging confession.

"Very well, madam, if you will come upstairs to my room with me I will show you my watch and my locket, and whatever else I have which you think may interest you."

The faint irony in Jane's well-modulated tones brought the color to Mrs. Belknap's forehead; but she arose determinedly. "Thank you, Jane," she said, "it will be best, I think."

Jane threw open the door of the metamorphosed trunkroom with the air of an empress. "Please sit down, Mrs. Belknap," she said politely. Then she opened the lid of her trunk. "This is my watch, of which Mary spoke to you. It belonged to my mother; it has her monogram on the back, you see; and inside is her name, Jane Evelyn Winston."

Mrs. Belknap's eyelids flickered inquiringly.

"Winston was my mother's name before she was married," Jane explained, with a scornful curl of her pretty lip. "This locket has my father's picture in it, as you see. Mother used to wear it on her neck. I can just remember it."

"It is a very handsome locket," murmured Mrs. Belknap.

"And these are mother's wedding and betrothal rings. This sapphire is very old; it belonged to my great-great-grandmother Aubrey-Blythe. There are some other jewels which belonged to mother, but Uncle Robert has them put away for me. I suppose I shall never see them again."

Jane choked a little over her last words, and two or three big, homesick tears dropped on the two rings.

"Jane!" exclaimed Mrs. Belknap, with sudden sharpness, "what—what is that?" She was pointing to a corner of the trunk, her eyes round with horrified surprise.

Jane's tear-blurred gaze followed the direction of her mistress's accusing finger.

"Will you take everything out of the trunk, please, and place the articles on this chair, one by one," commanded Mrs. Belknap.

The girl obeyed in stupefied silence.

"Do these articles—this fraternity badge, these hat pins, and this handkerchief belong to you, Jane?"

"No!—oh, my God, no!" cried Jane, staring with a suddenly blanching face at the little group of articles which Mrs. Belknap had singled out from among the things on the chair.

There was a tense silence in the room for the space of a minute; then Master Belknap's little feet were heard laboriously climbing the stair. "Muzzer!" he shouted, "I want 'oo, muzzer! I tan't find my Jane!"

Jane sobbed aloud.

"Oh, Jane, I am so sorry!" sighed Mrs. Belknap faintly. "Of course, you will have to go. But I shall not—" She hesitated over the harsh word, and finally substituted another. "I shall not tell anyone of this; except," she added firmly, "Mr. Belknap and Mr. Everett. I must tell them, of course. They will be sorry, too."

Jane stared at her mistress through a blur of anguished tears.

"Do you think—oh, you can't believe I did it?"

"What else can I believe?" Mrs. Belknap said sorrowfully. Then she arose with decision. "If you will come to me when you have packed, Jane, I will pay you your wages. And I do hope, my poor girl, that this will be a lesson to you. Nothing is so well worth while as truthfulness and honesty. Try to remember it, Jane, after this; will you?"

Jane's face hardened. "I didn't do it," she said doggedly. "That wicked Mary has been in my room. She said she had. She must have put these things in my trunk. I never saw them before."

"Jane!" exclaimed Mrs. Belknap; there was stern reproof, righteous anger, and a rapidly growing disgust in her voice. Then she swept out, pausing merely to say: "You may pack your things at once!"

John Everett came home early from the city that night. He had arrived at an important decision—namely, to make a confidante of his sister with regard to his unmistakable feelings for Jane. "Margaret is a brick!" he told himself hopefully. "She will understand; I know she will, and do the square thing by us both. It isn't as though Jane was a common, uneducated person; she is a lady to the tips of her little fingers—bless her!"

Mr. Everett's ideas had undergone a rapid and wonderful change within the few weeks of his meager acquaintance with Jane. He no longer appeared to himself to be breasting an unfriendly current of life with the mere vision of a distant, sunny shore to cheer his untiring efforts. He seemed suddenly to have attained a larger and completer knowledge of himself and of his powers. He knew himself to be abundantly able to make a home for the dearest, sweetest little girl in the world, and he was ready to ride rough shod and triumphant over difficulties of every conceivable sort. Since he had arrived at this by no means tardy conclusion of the matter, his love for Jane had over-leapt its barriers, and was ready to sweep all before it, including the girl's own delightful shyness and maiden coldness.

Mr. Everett found his sister Margaret at her little desk, a leather-covered account book open before her, a pile of bills and silver pushed to one side. He stooped to pinch her pink ear, following the pinch with a hearty brotherly kiss. Then he perceived that something was seriously amiss with the little lady. There were tears in her eyes and a piteous quaver in her voice as she looked up to greet him.

"What's the matter, little woman?" he asked gayly. "Won't the accounts balance?"

He bent nearer and read: "Jane Evelyn Aubrey-Blythe. Began work April 26th; wages $14.00."

"Is that her name?" he almost shouted. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I don't know what you mean, Jack," Mrs. Belknap replied petulantly. Then she burst into nervous tears as she faltered: "Jane's—gone! And, oh, Jack, she wouldn't take her wages!"