“What is that, my dear? A trip into the country? Why, certainly. Go and enjoy yourself. Stay as long as you like. Take the children with you and give the domestics a holiday. Don’t hurry back on my account. I shall get along well enough. I guess I haven’t forgotten all my old bachelor ways and means yet. Besides, I don’t believe in all this fuss and nonsense about housekeeping being burdensome. It all depends upon the amount of intellect you bring to bear upon the matter. Of course, women have no idea of ‘system’ such as a man uses in his business--but I know that it can be carried into the domestic economy with very good results, and I shall be glad of a chance to show you the effect of a little brain power in the kitchen.”^[18]

Mrs. Brown was a very indulgent wife who never found it necessary to proclaim superiority to her liege lord, even in the domestic lines where he now seemed really anxious to test his ability--besides, she really wanted a summer in the country for the children’s sake (or the children’s ache, as it proved later), so she smiled sweetly at his ready acquiescence to her suggestion and immediately set about preparations for departure.

She wanted to retain at least one domestic, as a reserved force in case of emergency; but Mr. Brown scouted the idea, and upon reflection she decided to let him have his way, knowing that he could exist upon restaurant fare if worse came to worst, and he was not so successful in his culinary experiments as he hoped.

So in three days the house was left in solitary possession of its sanguine head, who had gone to the suburban station with his family, bag and baggage, at noon.^[18]

Being in business for himself, Mr. Brown could not drop his work, as his clerks did, regardless of importance, when the clock pointed to the hour of five--and on this particular day he had been in close consultation with one of his out of town drummers, and in planning the fall campaign of business the time had sped so rapidly that he was surprised to find it half past six when the commercial man left him--and as he left the street car he half wished he had kept the cook for a day or two until he was fairly initiated, for he was hungry--very--and did not want to wait to cook a dinner. But thinking: “I’ll broil a steak and make some coffee,” he walked up the steps and into the house with a tolerably light heart. Once within, he had to whistle and talk to himself, to prevent the feeling of utter loneliness that would steal over him in spite of his weighty intellect.^[18]

Mr. Brown was orderly, even in haste, so when he took off his coat he hung it up with usual care--and put on his slippers before descending to the dining-room, which he found very dark. He opened the blinds wide, and as the light from the settingsetting sun flooded the room he took fresh courage. “Oh, this isn’t half bad, as our English cousins would say”--and he smiled with gratitude at Maria’s tender thoughtfulness (which just then struck him as better “pound for pound” than intellect or system) in having left the table already set, and with bits of her very choicest China, too.^[18]

“She’ll trust me with her hand-painted ware, if she doesn’t Bridget”--and he smiled again with pardonable pride as he thought of his own worthiness to be thus exalted beyond a mere drudge, while he proceeded to the kitchen.

The range was polished to a degree--for Maria was a good housekeeper and her domestics well trained, even without that mighty “intellect” and that forceful “system” on which Mr. Brown was at times prone to expatiate--but it was also dark and cold, and he didn’t want to stop and kindle a fire. As he turned to the gas stove, thinking he would use that, he remembered that he hadn’t brought any steak!

There was no help for it, he must go back down town for his dinner, as he had told Maria to be sure and have the cupboards cleared out, as he didn’t “want to live on cold victuals” and all the markets near were closed now. He locked up carefully, got on the next street car that came along, and went to a club-house that he had patronized in the beautiful long ago.

Apprehensive of more loneliness on his return home, he went out to a news stand and purchased a copy of Stockton’s latest story, for evening company. The house seemed darker than ever when he again entered it, and the silence was almost oppressive. He could hear his watch tick and his heart beat--and it seemed as if both said “Alone, alone, alone,” with provoking iteration, while he groped for a match.

Until then Mr. Brown had not known how much of his happiness depended upon light--light and sound. How still it was, even after the gas had made the house brilliant! What would he not have given to hear even one of Maria’s commonplaces about household matters! How he did wish Ben were here, his sturdy ten-year old Ben, who was so manly and yet so boyish!! The girls, of course, ought to be with Maria; but he and Ben would have been capital chums. Why had he not thought of it?

Even Stockton was dull alone--and he had sometimes had double fun with his favorite author, because in reading aloud he would have to stop and explain a joke that to him seemed bare. He put away the book, lighted a cigar and took up the daily newspaper--but now he missed Maria more than ever, for usually while he smoked, she billed and cooed and admired him in the most lavish way imaginable. That didn’t seem to be the product of any cast-iron system, nor to require any great intellectual effort; but Mr. Brown liked it, was accustomed to it, and he missed it from among the home comforts and luxuries by which he was surrounded.^[18]

A happy thought struck him, and he prepared to write a letter to his family. Now that was a sacrifice of self, for if there was anything Mr. Brown detested it was correspondence of any kind; but as he wrote he forgot himself and poured out some of his finest feelings in his letter to his wife and little ones, writing on and on, page after page--until he was not surprised next day to have to pay a sixteen cent tribute to Uncle Sam for carrying the precious missive.^[18]

The morning found him up early, having received an inspiration about breakfast, before going to bed. He would cook some rice! The baker’s man would come with hot rolls, which he had ordered the day before, and with the strawberries (which he heard the grocer’s boy bringing even now) coffee, and eggs, he would breakfast like a king. Also, he would bring Ed Nash home to dinner, and to stay all night, for spend another evening by himself he would not--if he could help it.

After a careful toilet Mr. Brown began a search for the rice, rightly judging that it would require longer to cook than coffee or eggs. That was premeditated intellect. What followed was neither premeditated nor--strictly speaking--intellect, for when it came to a matter of judgment regarding quantity, he simply hadn’t any; any judgment, I mean; the quantity was there--so far as the rice was concerned--and with a hasty “I’ll be sure to cook enough, so I can have some left for griddle cakes,” he washed a quart and put it on to boil in a tiny farina kettle, with just enough water to keep it from sticking, while he looked after the other things.

Something ailed that rice. That was certain; and as he looked at the hard, shiny grains after having put the coffee and eggs to boil, in real systematic shape, he brought his great, massive, masculine intellect to bear on the rice and its nature. “It needs more water”--and he covered it, feeling encouraged at the evident effect of mind over matter, and proceeded to hull the strawberries and give them a liberal powdering with sugar.

Then Mr. Brown looked at the rice again. Dry and hard as a stone! No evidence of ever having had a drop of water!! More meditation. The kettle was full--no room for water--rice must have swollen--get a larger kettle! Eureka!! And he got the larger kettle, and again flooded the rice, hoping it would be done by the time he had arranged his breakfast on the table. It had been cooking half an hour, and he had often heard Maria say that half an hour of quick boiling was enough--more spoiled it. To be sure this had not been “quick,” but “the extra length of time ought to compensate,” he reasoned, and with a very good show of logic.

But the law of compensation didn’t work, and all Mr. Brown’s logic left him helpless in the presence of that rice, when, after getting everything else on the table he again looked at it, only to find it as hard as possible, dry again, and up to the very edge of the second kettle!

“Well, I can have it for dinner. It will save cooking fresh;” and he again emptied it into a still larger kettle and sat down to a really good breakfast of which rice was not a component. Under the exhilarating influence of the coffee he grew facetious, and sustained all sides in a family conversation--to keep up a flow of spirits during the meal--varied by calls to an imaginary Bridget, whom he assured in a very good imitation of Maria’s blandest tones, “Mr. Brown will bring company to dinner to-night, so be prompt.”

He read the morning paper, while indulging in his third cup of the delicious beverage---then decided to put the dishes in the sink, unwashed, as there were so few soiled and plenty of fresh ones.

“Besides,” he reasoned with masculine forethought, “maybe Ed will help me wash them to-night”--which no one who knew Ed’s innermost would ever have suggested, as he had no genius for housekeeping, no intellectual craving for its drudgery, and a horror of anything about it except its most fastidious results. However, Mr. Brown did not know this, when he banked on Ed’s company and help--and when Ed was invited home to dinner “and to stay all night” he accepted with alacrity and with no thought of what was in store for him.

Mr. Brown dismissed himself from his office promptly at five this time, hoping to surprise Ed with a properly-served and really elegant dinner, having made elaborate preparations by telephone orders for steak, vegetables and fruit; and he hurried home happy in the consciousness of having demonstrated “intellectual capacity as a necessary adjunct of good housekeeping.” As he opened the door, an odor of something burning offended his somewhat delicate olfactory organs, but he proceeded with deliberate precision to divest himself of his street garb before descending to the kitchen, where he saw, oh, horrors! Rice on the range, on the floor, and everywhere, in great abundance; boiling, burning and dry, and that large kettle standing there full to the brim of a solid mass, dry and hard, the fire nearly out, having burned all day without a damper.

Mr. Brown was somewhat discouraged, but went bravely to work to rescue the range and floor from another inundation of rice and to clean up what had overflowed; but long before through the work of restoration the bell rang. He made no change in his looks before going up stairs, rightly thinking Ed would size up the joke in good shape and they would enjoy the whole thing in royal masculine style. He even forgot to drop the little shovel with which he had been scooping up the rice--his intellect was too weighty to suggest the use of a broom--so it now and then dropped a tear of rice on the carpet as he went to the door.

“Glad to see you, old fellow (fumbling at the night latch) at least I will be as soon as I get this measly door open”, and he fairly beamed at the prospect of company to dinner.

Mr. Brown’s face and attitude would have been a study for an artist when the door finally opened--and instead of Ed Nash, he saw an elegantly dressed young lady whom he did not know, but who smiled brightly, and said:

“Cousin George, I believe?”

No reply. Mr. Brown might have been petrified, for all the emotion he betrayed. He was dazed. After waiting two or three seconds the brilliant creature laughed outright, and asked:

“Didn’t Maria get my telegram? I don’t believe you were expecting me.”

Then he gasped, “Maria is out in the country. I thought it was Ed Nash.”

She laughed again, and that laugh reassured him, and as she said: “My name is Edna, but I was never before saluted as ‘old fellow’”, he opened the door wide and said:

“Come in and stay for dinner. I am here alone just now, but Ed is coming.”

Miss Russell hesitated but for a moment. She was only to be in the city between trains, and had telegraphed Maria that she would call--but the messenger had found no one at home and was just too late to find Mr. Brown at his office. She must get to the 8:30 train and “Cousin” George must go with her. So she declared, while taking off hat and gloves, at the hatrack.

Here was a dilemma. Dinner must be hastened; he must leave her in the library to entertain herself while he again went below stairs to reduce chaos to a semblance of civilization. Just then the bell rang again. This time it was Ed, and Mr. Brown received him with visible embarrassment--but kept him in the hall while explaining the situation before taking him into the library to present to Miss Russell--who, even yet, did not know that the house was being run by a one-man-power, else she would have gone down stairs at once and relegated Mr. Brown to the office of entertainer while she officiated as Bridget.

It was with an air of humility that our hero finally invited his guests to a dinner of which the fruit and coffee were by far the best part. Then they learned of his struggles, and together they laughed and ate, both gentlemen finally going to the train with Miss Russell, leaving the dinner table to stand until their return.

Here the writer will draw the veil of obscurity--referring you to Ed Nash for details as to what happened on their return--and leaves you to judge of the next six weeks’ doings by the dialogue that was heard the day following Maria’s return from the country:

“George, what is my garden-fork doing out there in the kitchen? It looks as if it had been burned. ‘You used it to broil steak on? You couldn’t use the broiler because the fat all ran down into the fire?’ You should have used your intellect, my dear.

“And this sticky stuff in the soup tureen; what is it? ‘You thought you would make a pie or two, but as the flour and water stuck to your fingers you ate the apples raw?’ A pie-ous plan, I am sure.

“And these dishes; why is all this China piled into these tubs and barrels? Upon my word, they look dirty. What’s the trouble? ‘Oh, you got tired of washing dishes, and it made your hands sore?’ You should have had a little more system, dearest, then it would have been all right.

“And this soiled linen? Why was it not given to the washerwoman, or sent to the laundry? ‘Oh, you kept using the clean and when that was gone you bought more?’ That was hardly good domestic economy, but if you have been buying so long you must have a good supply on hand, darling.

“How about the beds? I see that none of them are made. What! ‘You took turns, sleeping in each, to save the trouble of making?’ Well, that was ingenious, even if slightly tinctured with inertia.

“What is all this broken bric-a-brac out in the coal scuttle? ‘You attempted to dust the what-not and knocked the whole blamed thing endwise?’ George, your language is positively shocking, and is only equaled by your want of knowledge of some of the commonest truths in gravitation. You know that to maintain an equilibrium”--but here Mrs. Brown’s pretty mouth was closed by George’s larger one, who emerged from the oscular demonstration with a profession of profound respect for anyone who can run the household machinery with or without “system” and by bringing intellectual weight into it or leaving it out entirely.

The tableaux will suggest themselves at the places indicated; and during the last part of the reading the curtain should remain drawn from “George, what is my garden fork doing” until he kisses her, while she points to everything of which she speaks.