better_," says Luttrell, placidly.

"I do hate having my tea poured out for me," goes on Molly, not
deigning to notice him. "I am convinced Sarah lived with a retired
tallow-chandler, or something equally horrible, before she came to us.
She has one idol to which she sacrifices morning, noon, and night, and
I think she calls it 'style.'"

"And what is that?" interposes Luttrell, anxiously.

"I don't know, but I think it has something to do with not putting the
tea-pot on the tray, for instance, and taking the pretty fresh covers
off the drawing-room chairs when any one is coming, to convince them of
the green damask beneath. And once when, during a passing fit of
insanity, I dressed my hair into a pyramid, she told me I looked
'stylish.' It took me some time to recover that shock to my vanity."

"I like 'stylish' people myself," says John. "Lady Barton, I am
positive, is just what Sarah means by that, and I admire her
immensely,--within bounds, of course, my dear Letitia."

"Dreadful, vulgar woman!" says Molly, with a frown. "I'm sure I
wouldn't name Letty in the same day with her."

"We all know you are notoriously jealous of her," says John. "Her
meridian charms eclipse yours of the dawn."

"How poetical!" laughs Molly. "But the thing to see is Letitia
producing the children when her ladyship comes to pay a visit. She
always reminds me of the Mother of the Gracchi. Now, confess it, Letty,
don't you think Lady Barton's diamonds and rubies and emeralds grow
pale and lustreless beside your living jewels?"

"Indeed I do," returns Letitia, with the readiest, most unexpected
simplicity.

"Letitia," cries Molly, touched, giving her a little hug, "I do think
you are the dearest, sweetest, truest old goose in the world."

"Nonsense, my dear!" says Letitia, with a slow pleased blush that is at
once so youthful and so lovely.

"Oh! why won't Sarah come?" says Molly, recurring suddenly to her woes.
"I know, even if I went on my knees to Mr. Luttrell, he would not so
far trouble himself as to go in and find her; but I think she might
remember my weakness for tea."

"There she is!" exclaims John.

To their right rises a hedge, on which it has been customary for ages
to dry the household linen, and moving toward it appears Sarah, armed
with a basket piled high to the very top.

"Sarah," calls Molly, "Sarah--Sarah!"

Now, Sarah, though an undeniably good servant, and a cleanly one,
striking the beholder as a creatu