s 'me'?" he called.

"Zephania."

Zephania! Who in thunder was Zephania?

"I'm very sorry, Miss Zephania, but I'm not dressed yet. If you wouldn't
mind calling again in, say, half an hour--"

"Please, sir, I'll wait."

"Oh, well--er--was there something you wanted?"

"Please, sir, I've come to do for you."

To do for him! Wade clasped his knees with his arms and frowned
perplexedly at the big stove. It was distinctly threatening. He wondered
how she intended to accomplish her awful purpose. Perhaps she had
stopped in the woodshed and secured the axe. To do for him! Then he
laughed and sprang out of bed. It was Zenas Prout's girl, and she had
come to get his breakfast.

"Zephania!" he called.

"Yes, sir?" It sounded as though she were sitting on the back doorstep.

"The door is unlocked. Come in. You'll find things to eat on the table
and things to cook with in the closets. I'll be dressed in a few
minutes."

He heard the door open as he closed his own portal, and in a moment a
stove-lid fell clanging to the floor. After that Zephania's presence in
the house was never for a moment in doubt. Rattle-bang went the poker,
clicketty-click went the shaker, and triumphant over all rose Zephania's
shrill young voice:

"'O Beulah land, sweet Beulah land,
As on thy highest mount I stand;
I look away across the sea,
Where mansions are prepared for me.'"

"She has a cheerful presence," muttered Wade. "I wonder if she does that
all the time."

But Zephania's vocal efforts were forgotten for the moment in the
annoying discovery that he had neglected to provide washing
accommodations. He had intended using the kitchen sink for ablutions,
but with Zephania in possession of that apartment it was out of the
question. It was evident that if he meant to wash in the kitchen he
would have to get up earlier. What time of day was it, anyhow? He looked
at his watch and whistled.

"Twenty minutes of seven!" he ejaculated. "This won't do. I guess I'd
better get my own breakfasts. If there's one thing a chap wants to do in
vacation it's sleep late."

He raised the shades and flung open the front windows. On the lilac
hedge a bird was poised singing his heart out. Wade watched him in
admiration and wondered what kind of a bird he was. To Wade a bird was a
bird as long as it was neither a buzzard nor a crow.

"You're not a buzzard," he told the songster, "nor a crow. You have a
gray breast and brown body and a bla