s "the orphan" was a temporary member of the Wynchcote establishment
she merits a word of description. She came from an institution in the
neighborhood, and, being the only servant procurable at the time, was
tolerated in spite of a terrible propensity for smashing plates, and for
carolling at the very pitch of a nasal voice. She was a rough,
good-tempered girl, devoted to Minx, the cat, and really kind if anybody
had a headache or toothache, but quite without any sense of
discrimination: she would show a traveling hawker into the drawing-room,
and leave the clergyman standing on the doorstep, took the best
serviettes to wipe the china, scoured the silver with Monkey Brand Soap,
and systematically bespattered the kitchen tablecloth with ink. Her love
of music was a terrible trial to the medical student of the family on
Saturday morning, when he was endeavoring to read at home.

"Carlyle says somewhere: 'Give, oh, give me a man who sings at his
work!'" growled Athelstane one day, bursting forth from his den to
complain of the nuisance, "but I bet the old buffer didn't write that
sentiment with a maid-servant howling popular songs in the next room.
According to all accounts he loathed noise and couldn't even stand the
crowing of a cock. I should call that bit of eloquence just bunkum. If
the orphan doesn't stop this voice-production business I shall have to
go and slay her. How _can_ a fellow study in the midst of such a racket?
Where's the Mater? Down in Grovebury? I suppose that accounts for it.
While the cat's away, &c."

"Hardly complimentary to compare your maternal relative to a cat!"
chuckled Ingred. "Stop the orphan if you can, but you might as well try
to stop the brook! She's quiet for five minutes then bursts out into
song again like a chirruping cricket or a croaking corn-crake. I want to
spiflicate her myself sometimes."

"'Late last night I slew my wife,
Stretched her on the parquet flooring;
I was loath to take her life,
But I _had_ to stop her snoring!'"

quoted Hereward from _Ruthless Rhymes_.

"Look here!" said Quenrede, emerging from the kitchen with a half-packed
lunch basket. "We three are taking sandwiches, and going for a good old
tramp over the moors. Why not drop your work for once and come with us?
You look as if you needed a holiday."

"I've a beast of a headache," admitted Athelstane.

"You want fresh air, not study," decreed Quenrede with sisterly
firmness, "and I shal