year ago I had to make the same apology to him. Oh, my wicked,
wicked temper! I am ashamed of myself."

And now she had reached the old brick house and sounded the brass
knocker with an eager rat-tat-tat. Presently she heard footsteps resound
along the empty hall and the Irish housekeeper flung open the door.

"Is Professor Green up yet?" Molly demanded.

"And shure I've not an idea whether he be up or slapin'."

"But can't you see?"

"I cannot. It wouldn't be an aisy thing to do, I'm thinkin'."

"And why not, pray? It must be his breakfast time. You have only to rap
on his door. And it's very important."

"And if it's so important, you'd better be after sendin' him a cable to
the Bahamas, where the Professor is sunnin' himself at prisint."

"Nonsense, Mrs. Brady, the Professor got back last night. I saw him
myself. He must be up in his room now. Do go and see. You haven't cooked
him a bit of breakfast, I suppose?"

Mrs. Brady turned without a word and tiptoed up the stairs. Molly heard
her breathing heavily as she moved along the hall and tapped on the
Professor's door. Then came a muffled voice through the closed door.

"I'll git ye some breakfast, sir," called Mrs. Brady, and down she came.

"Shure an' you wuz right an' I wuz wrong, an' I'm obliged to you for the
information. But he'll not be ready for seein' people for an hour yet,
maybe longer."

"Mrs. Brady," said Molly, moved by a sudden inspiration. "Let me get his
breakfast."

"But----" objected the Irish woman.

"I'm a splendid cook and I'll give you no trouble at all. Please." Molly
put her hands on the Irish woman's shoulders and looked into her face
appealingly.

"Shure, thim eyes is like the gals' in the old countree, Miss," remarked
Mrs. Brady, visibly melting under that telling gaze. "Ye can do as you
like, but if the Professor don't like his breakfast the blame be on
you."

"He'll like it, I'm perfectly certain," said Molly, following Mrs. Brady
back to the kitchen.

"It's a very, very funny world," said Mrs. Brady, displaying the
contents of her larder to the volunteer cook.

Her resources were limited, to be sure, but Molly improvised a breakfast
out of them that a king would not have scorned. There were pop-overs
done to a golden brown, a perfect little omelet, bacon crisp enough to
please the most fastidious palate and an old champagne glass, the spoils
of some festive occasion, filled with iced orange juice. The coffee was
st