ll severely. "You despise that sort of thing yourself, so you
mustn't yield to it. Go over and be neighbourly, as nobody knows how
better than yourself, but don't judge people by their chins or their
curls."

He gave her angular shoulder an affectionate pat, looked straight into
her sharp eyes for a moment, until they softened perceptibly, said,
"You're all right, you know,"--and went whistling away.

"That's just like your impudence, Andy Churchill," said Mrs. Hepsibah
Fields to herself, as she laid her smooth loaves of bread-dough into
their tins and proceeded energetically to scrape the board. "You always
did have a way with you, wheedling folks into doing what they didn't
want to just to please you. Now I've got to go meddling in other
people's business and getting snubbed, most likely, just because you're
trying to combine friendship and doctoring."

But Mrs. Fields, when her work was done, went to look up her best jelly,
as Doctor Churchill had known she would do. And twenty-four hours had
not gone by before she had made friends with Charlotte Birch.

It was not hard to make friends with the girl if one went at it aright.
Mrs. Fields came in as Charlotte was stirring up gingerbread.

"I don't think much of back-door neighbours," Mrs. Fields said, "but I
didn't want to come to the front door with my jelly. I thought maybe
your sister would relish my black raspberry."

"That's very kind of you," said Charlotte. "You are--I think I've seen
you across the way. Won't you come in?"

"No, thank you. You're busy, and so am I. Yes, I'm Doctor Churchill's
housekeeper, and his mother's before that."

The sharp eyes noted with approval, in one swift glance as Charlotte
turned away with the jelly, the fact that the little kitchen was in
careful order. To be sure, it was four o'clock in the afternoon, an hour
when kitchens are supposed to be in order, if ever, yet it was a relief
to Mrs. Fields to find this one in that condition. Brass faucets gleamed
in the afternoon sunlight, the teakettle steamed from a shining spout,
the linoleum-covered floor was spotless, and the table at which
Charlotte was stirring her gingerbread had been scrubbed until it was as
nearly white as pine boards can be made.

"Gingerbread?" said the housekeeper, lingering in the doorway. "I always
like to make that. It seems the biggest result for the smallest labour
of anything you can make, and it smells so spicy when it comes out of
the oven."