nfusion.

"Indeed, I shan't spare her for any of that nonsense," said Mrs.
Verstage.

The hostess was much perplexed. She had reckoned on her son's
departure before Mehetabel arrived. She would not have asked for
her assistance if she had not been convinced that he would take
himself off.

She expostulated. Iver must not neglect his business, slight
his engagements. He had resolved to go, and had no right to
shilly-shally, and change his mind. She required his room. He
would be in the way with the guests.

To all these objections Iver had an answer. In fine, said he, with
Mehetabel in the house he could not and he would not go.

What was Mehetabel to do? Jonas had locked up his house and had
carried away the key with him; moreover, to return now was a
confession of weakness. What was Mrs. Verstage to do? She had
three visitors, real gentlemen, in the house. They must be made
comfortable; and the new servant, Polly, according to her notion,
was a hopeless creature, slatternly, forgetful, impudent.

There was no one on whom the landlady could fall back, except
Mehetabel, who understood her ways, and was certain to give
satisfaction. Mrs. Verstage was not what she had once been, old
age, and more than that, an internal complaint, against which she
had fought, in which she had refused to believe, had quite recently
asserted itself, and she was breaking down.

There was consequently no help for it. She resolved to keep a sharp
lookout on the young people, and employ Mehetabel unremittingly.
But of one thing she was confident. Mehetabel was not a person to
forget her duty and self-respect.

The agitation produced by finding that Iver purposed remaining in
the house passed away, and Mehetabel faced the inevitable.

Wherever her eye rested, memories of a happy girlhood welled up in
her soft and suffering breast. The geraniums in the window she had
watered daily. The canary--she had fed it with groundsel. The
brass skillets on the mantelshelf--they had been burnished by her
hand. The cushion on "father's" chair was of her work. Everything
spoke to her of the past, and of a happy past, without sharp
sorrows, without carking cares.

Old Simon was rejoiced to see Mehetabel again in the house. He
made her sit beside him. He took her hand in his, and patted it.
A pleasant smile, like a sunbeam, lit up his commonplace features.

"Mother and I have had a deal to suffer since you've been gone,"
said Simon. "The girl Poll