too astonished to do otherwise, Marshall obeyed. He was a
privileged person. His master did not often cross his will. There being
no other apparent heirs, Marshall had, in his own imagination,
constituted himself Mr. Wingate's heir. Why not? A lifelong service, an
untiring devotion to whims of all sorts, a continual attention to the
"creature comforts" which were so greatly a part of Archibald's
life--these merited a rich reward. Marshall intended to receive this
reward, should he be lucky enough to outlive his employer. He felt that
he would fill the position of owner of Fairacres with dignity and
profit. He did not like this new interest Mr. Wingate was taking, by
fits and starts, in the deposed family who were his relatives
and--enemies. In Marshall's opinion the breech between these kinsfolk
ought not to be healed. Amy's presence in the house was a disastrous
portent. She must be gotten out of it as soon as possible, and in such
a way that she would not care to come again. But how?

The servant revolved this question, as he carried away the bath, and so
profoundly that he failed to notice where he was going and stepped down
a forgotten stair so unexpectedly that he fell and drenched himself with
the water from the tub.

"Plague on her! Now, I'm in for it!" Which meant that before he could
remove the damage to his attire Amy would probably have gained whatever
she came to seek. He did not believe that anybody would visit his master
without having "an axe to grind," for he judged all men by himself.

However, having tasted the sweets of rebellion against this iron rule of
Marshall, Mr. Wingate determined to enjoy it further.

"He's a meddling old fool. He's a good servant, too. There isn't another
man in the world would put up with my tempers as he does. Never a word
in return, and as smooth as silk."

Amy laughed. "He looks to me as if he had had his hair licked by
kittens. It's so slick and flat. Do you have to mind him always?"

"Mind him? _I_--mind my _servant_, eh?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon. Of course--"

Mr. Wingate's face was scarlet. The weakness which he had hardly
acknowledged to himself had been instantly discovered by this
bright-eyed girl. It wasn't a pleasant thing to have so observant a
person about. He had something to say to her, however, and he would do
it at once and get rid of her. All his newly aroused affection died in
his resentment against her judgment.

"I want to go to the studio. T