uth misled--"

"George!"

"Well," said George, after a brief pause, more mildly, "I won't have
it."

"Then--but she can't stay here, George. It will spoil our whole summer."

"Exactly," George assented. There was another pause.

"I'll talk to Mamma--she may have some plan," Mary said at last, with a
long sigh.

Mamma had no plan to unfold on the following day, and a week and then
ten days went by without any suggestion of change on her part. The
weather was very hot, and Lizzie complained more than once that Mrs.
Honeywell must have her iced coffee and sandwiches at four and that
breakfast, luncheon, and dinner regularly for three was not at all like
getting two meals for two every day, and besides, there was another
bedroom to care for, and the kitchen was never in order! Mary applied
an unfailing remedy to Lizzie's case, and sent for a charwoman besides.
Less easily solved were other difficulties.

George, for example, liked to take long motoring trips out of the city,
on warm summer evenings. He ran his own car, and was never so happy as
when Mary was on the driver's seat beside him, where he could amuse her
with the little news of the day, or repeat to her long and, to Mary,
unintelligible business conversations in which he had borne a part.

But Mamma's return spoiled all this. Obviously, the little lady
couldn't be left to bounce about alone in the tonneau. If Mary joined
her there, George would sit silently, immovably, in the front seat,
chewing his cigar, his eyes on the road. Only when they had a friend or
two with them did Mary enjoy these drives.

Mamma had an unlucky habit of scattering George's valuable books
carelessly about the house, and George was fussy about his books. And
she would sometimes amuse herself by trying roll after roll on the
piano-player, until George, perhaps trying to read in the adjoining
library, was almost frantic. And she mislaid his telephone directory,
and took telephone messages for him that she forgot to deliver, and
insisted upon knowing why he was late for dinner, in spite of Mary's
warning, "Let him change and get his breath Mamma, dear,--he's
exhausted. What does it matter, anyway?"

Sometimes Mary's heart would ache for the little, resourceless lady,
drifting aimlessly through her same and stupid days. Mamma had always
been spoiled, loved, amused,--it was too much to expect strength and
unselfishness of her now. And at other times, when she saw the tired
droop