f servant-girls without screaming at
'em--never could. And look at you! Every man of 'em--that we
wanted--coming up two dollars a week, like gentlemen. And all for the
privilege of having this house bachelor. I thought they would. And
every man Jack of 'em booked for November first again. I tell you
what, Miss Merry, we'll paint both houses this fall, and I wouldn't
wonder, what with this spring being so backward and the season so long,
if we could paint and paper inside, right through, would you?"

"No," said the housekeeper, rocking gently, luxuriating in the
half-hour rest after a hard day on her feet with one servant gone.
"No, I wouldn't. That would be nice. I have something saved. You can
take that."

"Look at you!" cried Mrs. Palmer. "Saving on thirty a month! We'll
pretty near go halves, Miss Merry, from next November. What's bred in
the bone, as I said--you were born for the business!"

And the sister of Hiram Z. Allen, late Captain of Finance, blushed with
pleasure.

* * * * *

It was in March of the next year, as she sat at her neat desk in the
little room they had made into an office when they created a sun
parlour out of the side verandah, that Delia, responsible head of three
maids now, ushered a gentleman in to her.

"The doctor, Miss Merry, that came yesterday about the rooms for his
patient in the cottage," said Delia softly. "I can't seem to get the
name, ma'am."

"Very well," said Miss Mary and rose, plumper by eight or ten pounds
than she had been, dignified in black broadcloth, only enough of
reserve and weighing of her words about her to mark her off slightly
from the most of her sex and business.

"Miss Merry? I am Dr. Stanchon, I have been recommended most
strongly----"

She swayed before him, then sank into her chair, grasping the arms. He
looked courteously alarmed, stared, stared again, then snatched her
hand.

"It's not--it can't be--why, Miss Mary!" She gasped and trembled. The
year dropped off from her like a loosened cloak.

"Oh, Dr. Stanchon, don't, _don't_ tell him!" she moaned.

"Him? him?" he repeated. "Why, Miss Mary, were you here all the time?
And your hair--you were ill?"

"It used to be coloured--you never knew," she murmured. "I mean
Dr.--Dr. Jarvyse."

"But you are the one Swartout described to me--the one he's in love
with? Miss Mary, it was wrong of you--I looked for months. It was
cruel. And when they found t