her hand to her head as she repeated the word, and
looked quite bewildered. "Dear Helena, I have lived all my life in East
Flanders, and my own language is occasionally strange to me. Can you
tell me what flattery is in Flemish?"

"I don't understand Flemish."

"How very provoking! You don't understand Flemish, and I don't
understand Flattery. I should so like to know what it means. Ah, I see
books in this lovely room. Is there a dictionary among them?" She darted
to the bookcase, and discovered a dictionary. "Now I shall understand
Flattery," she remarked--"and then we shall understand each other.
Oh, let me find it for myself!" She ran her raw red finger along the
alphabetical headings at the top of each page. "'FAD.' That won't do.
'FIE.' Further on still. 'FLE.' Too far the other way. 'FLA.' Here we
are! 'Flattery: False praise. Commendation bestowed for the purpose of
gaining favor and influence.' Oh, Helena, how cruel of you!" She dropped
the book, and sank into a chair--the picture, if such a thing can be, of
a broken-hearted old maid.

I should most assuredly have taken the opportunity of leaving her to her
own devices, if I had been free to act as I pleased. But my interests
as a daughter forbade me to make an enemy of my father's cousin, on the
first day when she had entered the house. I made an apology, very neatly
expressed.

She jumped up--let me do her justice; Miss Jillgall is as nimble as a
monkey--and (Faugh!) she kissed me for the second time. If I had been a
man, I am afraid I should have called for that deadly poison (we are all
temperance people in this house) known by the name of Brandy.

"If you will make me love you," Miss Jillgall explained, "you must
expect to be kissed. Dear girl, let us go back to my poor little
petition. Oh, do make me useful! There are so many things I can do: you
will find me a treasure in the house. I write a good hand; I understand
polishing furniture; I can dress hair (look at my own hair); I play and
sing a little when people want to be amused; I can mix a salad and knit
stockings--who is this?" The cook came in, at the moment, to consult
me; I introduced her. "And, oh," cried Miss Jillgall, in ecstasy, "I can
cook! Do, please, let me see the kitchen."

The cook's face turned red. She had come to me to make a confession;
and she had not (as she afterward said) bargained for the presence of
a stranger. For the first time in her life she took the liberty
of whispe