Silas Chamberlain answered to a loud knock on his door at the midnight hour. It was the first week of August.

“From Hunter’s, you say?”

There was a mumbled conversation at the door.

“Why, yes, of course. Come right in—glad t’ have you. When was you called—an hour an’ a half ago? Now you come right upstairs, an’ we’ll have you in bed in two shakes. There now—them covers’ll be too heavy, I ’spect, but you kin throw ’em off if you don’t want ’em. Jest keep that light. I’ll git another downstairs. Good-night. Oh, yes! Jake’s gone for th’ doctor, you say? Started an hour an’ a half ago? Guess ’e ain’t there yet—seven mile you know. Well, good-night!”

Silas stumbled down the steep stairs.

“Liza Ann, it’s come! Pore little woman!”

He got back into bed and lay so still that his wife thought him asleep. “Pore child!” she heard him say just as she was drifting off to dreamland. An hour passed. An hour and a half. There was the sound of wheels.

“That’s th’ doctor, Liza Ann.” There was no reply.

The old man fidgeted for fifteen minutes more; he had grown nervous. He slid out of the bed quietly and went to the barn.

“Thought I heard a noise,” he told himself by way of excuse for his action. “Wonder if Old Queen’s loose?” He felt his way along the manger carefully. Unaccustomed to midnight visitors, Queen snorted and shrank from his hand when he touched her.

“Whoa, there! You needn’t be so blamed ’fraid—nothin’s goin’ t’ hurt you. You ain’t a woman.”

Silas found a nail-keg and sat down on it across from the nibbling horses, and thought and waited.

“He’s there by this time,” he murmured presently. “Wisht they’d ’a’ sent for Liza Ann. No, I guess it’s better not. She wouldn’t know what t’ do, havin’ no experience.”

He debated with himself as to whether he should go back to bed or not.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he concluded. “Lord! how long the nights is when a feller’s awake!”

The horses ate on uninterruptedly and the soft breeze stole through the old barn, while everything in nature was indicative of peace except the old man, whose mind worked relentlessly on the situation of the young wife whose certain suffering racked him almost as much as if he had stood in its presence.

“Gosh-a-livin’s!” he exclaimed as a new thought struck him. “I wonder which one of ’em Jake got. Now that young Doc Stubbins ain’t got no more sense ’n a louse. I ought t’ ’a’ told John an’ I forgot. Lord! Lord! th’ chances th’ poor critters have t’ take!”

Mrs. Chamberlain was awakened in the gray light of morning as her husband crept shivering into bed.

“Where you been?” she asked.

“Out t’ th’ barn. Heard a noise an’ thought I’d better look into it,” was Silas’s reply.

As the sun rose the new life was ushered in. Doctor Morgan did not start home till after nine o’clock.

“Who is to have charge of your wife, Mr. Hunter?” he asked as he paused in the door and looked back at his patient anxiously. Seven miles was a long distance—and she might need him suddenly.

“Why, I thought Hepsie and I could care for her,” John replied. Trained nurses were unheard of in those days.

“It simply cannot be,” answered the old man. (Doctor Stubbins had not been engaged.) “Another attack like this last one would—well, you must have some one of experience here. It’s a matter of life or death—at least it might be,” he added under his breath. “Couldn’t you stay?” he asked Susan Hornby, who sat with the baby on her knee. “The girl’s liable to slip away from us before I could get here.”

It was arranged that Aunt Susan should stay with the young mother, who was too weak to turn her head on the pillow it lay upon, for as the old doctor had said she was a desperately sick girl. They had but just kept her with them. The presence of Aunt Susan was almost as delightful to Elizabeth Hunter as the head of the child on her arm. Weak and exhausted, she was permitted such rest as she had not known in all the days of her married life. The darkened room and the quiet of the next three days were such a mercy to her tired nerves that she would have been glad to lie there for ages. Doctor Morgan let Susan Hornby return to her home and husband at the end of the week, confident that with care, Hepsie could perform the little offices required, but he was to learn that country people have little judgment in serious cases of illness, and that the young mother’s room would be filled with company when he came out the next day.

Mr. and Mrs. Crane were the first to arrive on Sunday morning, and when John announced that they were driving up to the hitching post, Elizabeth begged weakly for him to say that she was too ill to see any one that day. John would have been glad to deliver that message, remembering the wedding day, but Sadie was with her mother, and John had found Luther a convenient neighbour of late.

“We can’t offend them,” he said.

“But I can’t have them. Please, John—with my head aching already.”

“Don’t speak so loud,” John said warningly.

Mrs. Farnshaw came and had to have her team tied to the barnyard fence. She walked to the house with the rest of the company, and even in their presence could not restrain her complaints because she had not been notified of her daughter’s serious illness and the arrival of the child. Elizabeth’s protest that they had been absorbed by that illness, and too busy to think of anything but the most urgent and immediate duties, did not quiet the objections, for Mrs. Farnshaw had the habit of weak insistence. Her mother’s whine was never so hard to bear.

“Where’s Mr. Farnshaw?” Mr. Crane asked. “He’s grandpa now.”

Elizabeth shrank into her pillows, and Mrs. Farnshaw bridled angrily.

“He’s busy,” was her tart reply.

“I should think he’d want t’ see his grandson. Lizzie, you haven’t showed me that boy,” Mr. Crane insisted.

And Elizabeth, weak and worn, had to draw the sleeping child from under the quilts at her side and show him off as if he had been a roll of butter at a country fair, while constant reference was made to one phase or another of the unpleasant things in her experience. Her colour deepened and her head thumped more and more violently, and by noon when they trooped out to the dining room, where Hepsie had a good dinner waiting, the girl-wife was worn out. She could not eat the food brought to her, but drank constantly, and was unable to get a snatch of sleep before the visitors assembled about her bed again.

At four o’clock Doctor Morgan arrived and Luther Hansen came for Sadie. Sadie saw him drive in, and laughed unpleasantly.

“Luther wasn’t a bit for comin’, but I told him I’d come over with ma, an’ he could come after me. He’s always chicken-hearted, an’ said since Lizzie was so sick we oughtn’t t’ come. I don’t see as you’re s’ sick, Lizzie; you’ve got lots of good colour in your face, an’ th’ way you pull that baby around don’t look much like you was goin’ t’ kick the bucket just yet.”

Elizabeth made no reply, but watched John help Doctor Morgan tie his team.

“How’s Mrs. Hunter?” Doctor Morgan asked John as he came around to the gate after the horses were fastened.

“All right, I guess. She’s had a good deal of company to-day. I didn’t want them, but you can’t offend people.”

“We usually have a good deal of company at a funeral,” the old doctor said dryly, as he viewed the extra horses and wagons about the fence.

When he entered the sickroom his face hardened.

“I’m not as much afraid of your neighbours as you are, Mr. Hunter,” he said, and went to the middle door and beckoned Luther to come with him into the yard. A few words was all that was needed with Luther Hansen, and the doctor returned to his patient.

Sadie was more sarcastic than usual as they drove home.

“I wouldn’t ’a’ come if I’d a known I wasn’t wanted,” she remarked sulkily.

“But, Sadie, Doc Morgan says she’s worse! I’d turn ’em out quick enough if it was you.”

Poor little Sadie Hansen caught the spirit of the remark. Nothing like it had ever before been offered her in all her bitter, sensitive experience. She looked up at her husband mollified, and let even Elizabeth have a season of rest as she considered this astonishing thing which marriage had brought to her.

Susan Hornby, who had thought her darling resting on this quiet Sabbath day, was reËstablished at the bedside, and it was not till the morning of the tenth day that she again left the house. At the end of that time she was dismissed reluctantly by the good old doctor himself. It had been such a good excuse to be with Elizabeth that Aunt Susan had persuaded the long-suffering Nathan that her presence beside her was a thing not to be denied, and Nathan, glad to see Sue so happy, ate many a cold meal that haying season and did not complain. It was a great event in Susan Hornby’s life. Gentle and cordial to all, Susan Hornby lived much alone—alone most of all when surrounded with her neighbours. Elizabeth was her only real tie.

“Oh, child! I’m so glad you’ve got him,” she said one day as she laid the beautiful brown head on Elizabeth’s arm.

Elizabeth patted the hand that was drawing the little white shawl over the baby’s head. Master John Hunter—the babe had been named for its father—had had his daily bath, and robed in fresh garments, and being well fed and housed in the snuggest of all quarters, the little triangle made by a mother’s arm, settled himself for his daily nap, while the two women watched him with the eyes of affection. Never again do we so nearly attain perfect peace in this turbulent life as during those first few weeks when the untroubled serenity of human existence is infringed upon by nothing but a desire for nourishment, which is conveniently present, to be had at the first asking, and which there is such a heaven of delight in obtaining. We are told that we can only enter the Kingdom of Heaven by becoming as little children: no other Kingdom of Heaven is adequate after that.

The life in this little room had taken Susan Hornby back to her own youth, and as often as otherwise when Master John was being put through his daily ablutions it was the little Katie of long ago that she bathed and robed fresh and clean for the morning nap. At other times Elizabeth was her Katie grown older. It was the flowering time of Susan Hornby’s life. The fact that Elizabeth had never crossed her threshold since her marriage to John Hunter had faded out of Aunt Susan’s mind. Elizabeth’s every word and look spoke the affection she felt for her. Other people might sneer and doubt, but Susan Hornby accepted what her instincts told her was genuine.

Elizabeth got about the house slowly. The days in bed had been made tolerable by the presence of those she loved, but she was far from strong, and she looked forward with reluctance to the time when Aunt Susan would not be with her. John complained of Hepsie’s work only when with his wife alone, for Aunt Susan had been so constant in her praises that he would not start a discussion which he had found he brought out by such criticism.

Susan Hornby looked on, and was as much puzzled as ever about the relations of the young couple. Elizabeth was evidently anxious about John’s opinions, but she never by so much as a word indicated that they differed from hers. She spoke of him with all the glow of her early love; she pointed out his helpfulness as if he were the only man in the world who looked after the kitchen affairs with such exactitude; she would have the baby named for no one else, and all her life and thought centred around him in so evident a manner that Aunt Susan could not but feel that she was the happiest of wives. She talked of her ideals of harmony, of her thankfulness for the example of the older woman’s life with her husband, of her desire to pattern after that example, of everything that was good and hopeful in her life, with so much enthusiasm as to completely convince her friend that she had found a fitting abiding place. And, indeed, Elizabeth believed all that she said. Each mistake of their married life together had been put away as a mistake. Each day she began in firm faith in the possibility of bringing about necessary changes. If she failed, she was certain in her own mind that the failure had been due to some weakness of her own. Never did man have a more patient, trusting wife than John Hunter. There had been much company about the house of late, and there had been no difficulties. Elizabeth was not yet analytical enough to reason out that because of the presence of that company far less demand had been made upon her by her husband. She thought that they were really getting on better than they had done, and told herself happily that it must be because she was more rested than she had been and was therefore not so annoyed by small things. It was ever Elizabeth’s way to look for blame in herself. The baby was a great source of pleasure also. He was a good child and slept in the most healthy fashion, though beginning now when awake to look about him a little and try to associate himself with his surroundings. Elizabeth had begun to look forward to Silas’s first visit with the child. Silas had quaint ways with the young, and it was with very real pleasure that she dragged herself to the door and admitted him the first week she was out of bed. Elizabeth led the old man to the lounge on tiptoe.

“I want you to see him, Mr. Chamberlain; you and he are to be great friends,” she said as she went down on her knees and drew the white shawl reverently from the sleeping face. “Isn’t he a fine, big fellow?” she asked, looking up at the old man.

“’E ought t’ be, havin’ you for his mother,” Silas said with an attempt at being witty, and looking at the baby shyly.

The baby roused a little, and stretched and grunted, baby fashion.

“Lordie! what good sleep they do have!” Silas said, holding out his finger to the little red hand extended toward him, and then withdrawing it suddenly. “Now, Liza Ann sleeps just like that t’ this day.” He spoke hesitatingly, as if searching for a topic of conversation. “She does ’er work regular like, an’ she sleeps as regular as she works. I often think what a satisfyin’ sort of life she leads, anyhow. She tends t’ ’er own business an’ she don’t tend t’ nobody else’s, an’—an’—she ain’t got no more on ’er mind ’n that there baby.”

Elizabeth gathered the child into her arms and seated herself in a rocking chair, while the old man sat stiffly down on the edge of the lounge and continued:

“Now I ain’t that way, you know. I have a most uncomfortable way of gettin’ mixed up in th’ affairs of others.”

“But it’s always a friendly interest,” Elizabeth interposed, mystified by his curious manner and rambling conversation.

Silas crossed his knees and, clasping his hands about the uppermost one, rocked back and forth on the edge of the lounge.

“Most allus,” he admitted, “but not quite. Now I’m fair ready t’ fight that new Mis Hansen. I’ve been right fond of Luther, for th’ short time I’ve knowed ’im, but what he see in that there Sadie Crane’s beyond me. He’s square. He looks you in th’ face ’s open ’s day when he talks t’ you, an’ you know th’ ain’t no lawyer’s tricks in th’ wordin’ of it. But she’s different. They was over t’ our house Sunday ’fore last an’ I never knowed Liza Ann t’ be’s near explodin’ ’s she was ’fore they left. It done me right smart good t’ see ’er brace up an’ defend ’erself. I tell you Mis Hansen see she’d riled a hornet ’fore she got away. Liza Ann ’ll take an’ take, till you hit ’er just right, an’ then—oh, my!”

Silas ended with a chuckle.

“After they left, she just told me I could exchange works with somebody else; she wasn’t goin’ t’ have that woman comin’ t’ our house no more.”

“Sadie is awfully provoking,” Elizabeth admitted, “but—but—Luther likes her, and Luther is a good judge of people, I always thought.”

“Yep,” Silas admitted in return, “an’ I don’t understand it. Anyhow, I never knew Liza Ann come s’ near forgettin’ ’erself. It was worth a day’s travel t’ see.”

They talked of other things, the baby dropped asleep in its mother’s arms, and Silas took his departure.

“How unlike him,” Elizabeth said to herself as she watched him go to his wagon.

Silas rode away in an ill-humour with himself.

“Now there I’ve been an’ talked like a lunatic asylum,” he meditated. “I allus was that crazy about babies! Here I’ve gone an’ talked spiteful about th’ neighbours, an’ told things that hadn’t ought t’ be told. If I’d a talked about that baby, I’d ’a’ let ’er see I was plum foolish about it—an’ I couldn’t think of a blessed thing but th’ Hansens.”

He rode for a while with a dissatisfied air which gave way to a look of yearning.

“My! How proud a man ought t’ be! How little folks knows what they’ve got t’ be thankful for! Now I’ll bet ’e just takes it as a matter of course, an’ never stops t’ think whether other folks is as lucky or not. She don’t. She’s in such a heaven of delight, she don’t care if she has lost ’er purty colour, or jumped into a life that’ll make an ol’ woman of ’er ’fore she’s hardly begun t’ be a girl, nor nothin’. She’s just livin’ in that little un, an’ don’t even know that can’t last long.”

There was a long pause, and then he broke out again.

“Think of a man havin’ all that, an’ not knowin’ th’ worth of it! Lord! If I’d ’a’ had—but there now, Liza Ann wouldn’t want me t’ mourn over it—not bein’ ’er fault exactly. Guess I ought t’ be patient; but I would ’a’ liked a little feller.”

When John came home that night Elizabeth told him of Silas’s visit.

“He hardly looked at baby at all,” she said disappointedly, “and I’d counted on his cunning ways with it more than anybody’s. I thought he’d be real pleased with it, and instead of that, he didn’t seem interested in it at all, and sat and stared at me and talked about Sadie. I thought sure he’d want to hold it—he’s got such cute ways.”

“How could you expect an old fellow like him to care for babies?” John said, smiling at the thought of it. “A man has to experience such things to know what they mean.”

He took the child from her arms and sat down to rock it while he waited for the supper to be put on the table.

“Say,” he began, “I saw Hepsie setting the sponge for to-morrow’s bread as I came through the kitchen. I’ll take care of baby, and you go and see about it. The bread hasn’t been up to standard since you’ve been sick. You’ll have to look after things a little closer now that you are up again.”

Elizabeth, whose back was not strong, had been sitting on the lounge, and now dropped into a reclining position as she replied:

“The bread has not been bad, John. Aunt Susan was always marvelling at how good it was compared to the usual hired girl’s bread.”

“It was pretty badly burned last time,” John observed dryly.

“That didn’t happen in the sponge, dear, and anybody burns the bread sometimes,” she returned; “besides that, it makes my back ache to stir things these days.”

John Hunter did not reply, but every line of him showed his displeasure. It was not possible to go on talking about anything else while he was annoyed, and the girl began to feel she was not only lazy but easily irritated about a very small thing. Reflecting that her back would quit hurting if she rested afterward, she arose from the lounge and dragged herself to the kitchen, where she stirred the heavy sponge batter as she was bidden.

Mrs. Hunter was expected to return in a little over a week, and the first days when Elizabeth was able to begin to do small things about the house were spent in getting the house cleaning done and the entire place in order for her coming. It happened that a light frost fell upon Kansas that year weeks before they were accustomed to look for it; and the tomato vines were bitten. It was necessary to can quickly such as could be saved. In those days all the fruit and vegetables used on Kansas farms were “put up” at home, and Elizabeth, with two, and sometimes more, hired men to cook for, was obliged to have her pantry shelves well stocked. The heat of the great range and the hurry of the extra work flushed the pale face and made deep circles below her eyes, but Elizabeth’s pride in her table kept her at her post till the canning was done. By Saturday night the tomatoes were all “up,” and the carpets upstairs had been beaten and retacked. Mrs. Hunter’s room had been given the most exact care and was immaculate with tidies and pillow-shams, ironed by Elizabeth’s own hands, and the chickens to be served on the occasion of her arrival were “cut up” and ready for the frying pan.

Sunday there was a repast fit for a king when John and his mother came from town. Every nerve in Elizabeth’s body had been stretched to the limit in the production of that meal. Too tired to eat herself, the young wife sat with her baby in her arms and watched the hungry family devour the faultless repast. She might be tired, but the dinner was a success. The next morning, when the usual rising hour of half-past four o’clock came, it seemed to the weary girl that she could not drag herself up to superintend the getting of the breakfast.

“Mother’ll help you with the morning work and you can lie down afterward,” John assured her when she expressed a half determination not to rise.

But after breakfast Mrs. Hunter suggested that they scour the tinware, and the three women put in the spare time of the entire morning polishing and rubbing pans and lids. As they worked, Mrs. Hunter discussed tinware, till not even the shininess of the pans upon which they worked could cover the disappointment of the girl that her mother-in-law should have discovered it in such a neglected condition.

“Really, child, it isn’t fit to put milk in again till it’s in better condition. How did you happen to let it get so dull and rusty?”

“Now, mother, it isn’t rusty at all. It is pretty dull, but that’s not Hepsie’s fault. It was as bright as a pin when I got up, but we’ve had the tomatoes to put up and the housecleaning to do and it couldn’t be helped,” Elizabeth replied, covering up any share the girl might have had in the matter. She knew the extra work which had fallen on Hepsie’s shoulders in those last weeks, and particularly since she herself had been out of bed, for the girl loved Elizabeth and had shielded her by extra steps many times when her own limbs must have ached with weariness.

“You don’t mean to say you used the tin pans for any thing as corroding as tomatoes!” Mrs. Hunter exclaimed in astonishment.

“We used everything in sight I think—and then didn’t have enough,” Elizabeth said with a laugh.

“But you should never use your milk pans for anything but milk, dear,” the older woman remonstrated. “You know milk takes up everything that comes its way, and typhoid comes from milk oftener than any other source.”

“There are no typhoids in tomatoes fresh from the vine,” Elizabeth replied testily, and Mrs. Hunter dropped the subject.

But though she dropped the subject she did not let the pans drop till the last one shone like a mirror. With the large number of cows they were milking many receptacles were needed and John had got those pans because they were lighter to handle than the heavy stone crocks used by most farmers’ wives. Elizabeth was more appreciative, of those pans than any purchase which had been made for her benefit in all the months she had served as John’s housekeeper, but by the time she was through scouring she was ready to throw them at any one who was foolish enough to address her upon housekeeping; besides, she plainly discerned the marks of discontent upon Hepsie’s face. Hepsie was a faithful servitor, but she had learned by several years of service to stop before her energies were exhausted. It was the first sign of dissatisfaction she had ever shown, and Elizabeth was concerned.

The next morning Elizabeth’s head was one solid, throbbing globe of roar and pain. Mrs. Hunter brought her a dainty breakfast which it was impossible for her to eat, and said with genuine affection:

“We have let you do too much, my dear, and I mean to take some of this burden off of your shoulders. You’re not yourself yet. John tells me you were sicker than people usually are at such times. I ought to have helped the girl with that tinware yesterday and sent you to bed.”

Elizabeth listened with some alarm to the proposition of Mrs. Hunter taking the house into her own hands, but she was touched by the real sympathy and concern evident.

“It’s good of you, mother. You’ll have to be careful about Hepsie, though. You must not call her ‘the girl’ where she hears you. You see she is one of our old neighbours, and—and—well, they hate to be called that—and they aren’t exactly servants.”

“Well, I’ll get the dinner for her—it’s wash day. Don’t try to get up,” Mrs. Hunter said, taking the breakfast away with her.

“Be careful about Hepsie, mother,” Elizabeth called after her in an undertone. “She’s a good girl, if you understand her and—and they leave you at the drop of a hat.”

Hepsie’s going came sooner than even Elizabeth had feared. She brought a cup of coffee to her at noon, but avoided conversation and went out at once.

Elizabeth called her mother-in-law to her after dinner was over and cautioned her afresh.

“But I haven’t had a word with her that was ill-natured or cross,” Mrs. Hunter protested indignantly.

“I don’t suppose you have, mother,” the miserable girl replied, puzzled as to how she was to make the older woman understand. “It’s—it’s a way you have. I saw that she was hurt about that tinware. She’s been very satisfactory, really. She takes every step off of me that she can. She’s the best in the country—and—and they hang together too. If we lost her, we’d have a hard time getting another.”

“Well, it makes me cross to have to work with them as if they were rotten eggs and we were afraid of breaking one, but if I have it to do I suppose I can. I only looked after the clothes to see that she got the streaks out of them. I knew she was mad about something, but I rinsed them myself; I always do that.”

After Mrs. Hunter was gone Elizabeth thought the matter over seriously. Neither Hepsie nor any other girl they could get in that country was going to have her work inspected as if she were a slave. They were free-born American women, ignorant of many things regarding the finer kinds of housekeeping in most instances, but independent from birth and surroundings. In fact, there was a peculiar swagger of independence which bordered upon insolence in most of the homes from which Kansas help must be drawn. Elizabeth knew that their dignity once insulted they could not be held to any contract.

Mrs. Hunter went back to the kitchen and tried to redeem the mistakes she had made, but Hepsie would not be cajoled and the unpleasantness grew. Saturday night the girl came to Elizabeth and said, without looking her in the face at all:

“Jake says, if he can have th’ team, he’ll take me home. I—I think I won’t stay any longer.”

“Do you have to go, Hepsie?” Elizabeth said, her face troubled.

Hepsie avoided her glance because she knew the trouble was there. Hepsie had been very happy in this house and had been proud of a chance to keep its well supplied shelves in satisfactory condition. Gossip hovered over whatever went on in the Hunter home, and there was a distinction in being associated with it; also Hepsie had come to love Elizabeth more than she usually did her country mistresses. She saw that all the unkind things which were being said about Elizabeth’s stuck-up propensities were untrue, and that Elizabeth Hunter was as sensible and kindly as could be wished when people understood her.

“I’ll be up and around hereafter,” Elizabeth continued. “You don’t understand mother. She’s all right, only she isn’t used to the farm.”

“I guess I understand ’er all right,” Hepsie said sullenly; “’t wouldn’t make no difference, you bein’ up. She’d be a-tellin’ me what t’ do just th’ same, an’ I’m tired enough, washdays, without havin’ somebody t’ aggravate me about every piece that goes through th’ rench.”

She stood waiting for Elizabeth to speak, and when she did not, added resentfully:

“You an’ me always got along. We had a clean house, too, if Mr. Hunter didn’t think I knew much.”

Elizabeth’s surprise was complete. She had not supposed the girl knew John’s estimate of her work. John was usually so clever about keeping out of sight when he insisted upon anything unpleasant that it had never occurred to Elizabeth that Hepsie was aware that John insisted upon having her do things which he felt that Hepsie could not be trusted to do unwatched. There was nothing more to be said. She reckoned the girl’s wages, and told her that Jake could have the team.

Before Hepsie went that night, she came back to the bedroom and cuddled the baby tenderly.

“I’m—I’m sorry t’ go an’ leave you with th’ baby so little, Lizzie. ’Taint hardly fair, but—but if you worked out a while you’d learn t’ quit ’fore you was wore out.” She stood thinking a moment, and then cautioned Elizabeth sincerely: “I’m goin’ t’ say one thing ’fore I leave: you’d better ship that old woman ’fore you try t’ get another girl around these parts. I’ll be asked why I left an’—an’ I’ll have t’ tell, or git folks t’ thinkin’ I’m lazy an’ you won’t have me.”

Elizabeth’s heart sank. She would not plead for the girl to keep still. It would have been of no use; besides, her own sense of fairness told her that there was room for all that had been hinted at.

Monday John spent the day looking for a girl to take Hepsie’s place. Tired and discouraged, he came home about four o’clock in the afternoon.

“Could you get me a bite to eat?” he asked Elizabeth as he came in. “I haven’t had a bite since breakfast.”

Elizabeth laid the baby on the bed, and turned patiently toward the kitchen. An hour was consumed in getting the extra meal and doing the dishes afterward, and then it was time to begin the regular supper for the rest of the family. When John found that she had thrown herself down on the bed to nurse the baby instead of coming to the table for her supper, he insisted that she at least come and pour the tea, and when she sat unresistant through the meal, but could not eat, he sent her to bed and helped his mother wash the supper dishes without complaint. The next morning, however, he hailed her forth to assist with the half-past four o’clock breakfast relentlessly, unaware that she had spent a weary and sleepless night.

“Are you going to look for a girl to-day?” she asked as he was leaving the house after the breakfast was eaten.

“Oh! I suppose so, but I haven’t much hopes of getting one,” he answered impatiently. Then seeing the tears in her eyes at the thought of the washing waiting to be done, he kissed her tenderly. “I’ll do the best I can, dear; I know you’re tired.”

“Well, the next one I get I hope mother ’ll let me manage her. If Hepsie wouldn’t stand her ways of talking about things none of the rest will.” After a moment’s reflection she added: “I cannot do all this work myself. I’m so tired I’m ready to die.”

John slipped his arm about her and said earnestly:

“I’ll do all I can to help you with the dinner dishes, but you are not to say one word to mother about this.”

It was gently put, but authoritative.

“Then you needn’t look for one at all,” she said sharply.

John’s arm fell from about her and he looked at her in cold astonishment.

“I don’t care,” she insisted. “I can’t keep a girl and have mother looking over every piece of washing that is hung on the line.”

“Mother kept girls a long time in her own house,” he answered, taking offence at once.

“I don’t care; she dealt with a different kind of girls.” Then with a sudden illumination, she added: “She didn’t have such quantities of work to do, either. If we go on this way we’ll have to have help and keep it or we’ll have to cut down the farm work.” She brightened with the thought. “Let’s cut the work down anyhow, dear. I’d have so much an easier time and—and you wouldn’t have all those wages to raise every month, and we could live so much more comfortably.”

She leaned forward eagerly.

“I don’t see but we’re living as comfortably as folks usually do,” John replied evasively.

“I know, dear, but we have to have the men at meals all the time and—and——”

“Now see here, Elizabeth, don’t go and get foolish. A man has to make a living,” John said fretfully.

The girl had worked uncomplainingly until her last remnant of strength was gone, and they were neither willing to do the thing which made it possible to keep help, nor to let her do the work as she was able to do it. With it all, however, she tried patiently to explain and arrange. Something had to be done.

“I know you have to make a living, John, and I often think that I must let you do it in your own way, but there are so many things that are getting into a snarl while we try it this way. We don’t have much home with strangers at our table every day in the year. We never have a meal alone. I wouldn’t mind that, but it makes more work than I am able to do, it is getting you into debt deeper every month to pay their wages, and you don’t know how hard it is going to be to pay those debts a few years from now. But that isn’t the worst of it as far as I am concerned. I work all the time and you—you aren’t satisfied with what I do when I do everything my strength will let me do. I can’t do any more than I’m doing either.”

“I am satisfied with what you do,” he said with evident annoyance at having his actions and words remarked upon. “Besides, you have mother to help you.” He had ignored her remarks upon the question of debts, determined to fasten the attention elsewhere.

The little ruse succeeded, for Elizabeth’s attention was instantly riveted upon her own hopeless situation.

“It isn’t much help to run the girl out and then make it so hard to get another one,” she said bitterly.

Instantly she wished she had not said it. It was true, but she wished she could have held it back. John did not realize as she did how hard it was going to be to get another girl. She had not told him of Hepsie’s remarks nor of her advice. Elizabeth was not a woman to tattle, and the “old woman” Hepsie had referred to was his mother.

“Don’t think I’m hard on her, John. If we could only get another girl I wouldn’t care.”

She waited for him to speak, and, when he did not do so, asked hopelessly:

“Don’t you think we can get another girl pretty soon if we go a good ways off from this neighbourhood?”

“I don’t know anything about it, and I don’t want to hear anything more about it either,” was the ungracious reply.

“I am in the wrong. You will hear no more on either subject.”

The tone was earnest. Elizabeth meant what she said. John went from the house without the customary good-bye kiss. We live and learn, and we learn most when we get ourselves thoroughly in the wrong.