hen--cold victuals--after we
had finished?"

Rose looked exceedingly puzzled. "No, she would not; at least, no
maid I ever had would have," she admitted.

"Where is she going to eat, then? Would she wait till after we were
through and eat in the dining-room?"

"I don't believe she would like that, either."

"Where is she going to eat?" demanded Sylvia, inexorably.

Rose gazed at her.

"She could have a little table in here, or in the parlor," said
Sylvia.

Rose laughed. "Oh, that would never do!" said she. "Of course there
was a servants' dining-room at Mrs. Wilton's, and there always is in
a hotel, you know. I never thought of that."

"She has got to eat somewhere. Where is she going to eat?" asked
Sylvia, pressing the question.

Rose got up and kissed her. "Oh, well, I won't bother about it for a
while, anyway," said she. "Now I think of it, Betty is sure to be off
to Newport by now, and Sally must be about to sail for Paris to buy
her trousseau. She is going to marry Dicky van Snyde in the autumn
(whatever she sees in him)! So I doubt if either of them could do
anything about a maid for me. I won't bother at all now, but I am not
going to let you wait upon me. I am going to help you."

Sylvia took one of Rose's little hands and looked at it. "I guess you
can't do much with hands like yours," said she, admiringly, and with
an odd tone of resentment, as if she were indignant at the mere
suggestion of life's demanding service from this dainty little
creature, for whom she was ready to immolate herself.

However, Rose had in her a vein of persistency. She insisted upon
wiping the dishes and dusting. She did it all very badly, but Sylvia
found the oddest amusement in chiding her for her mistakes and in
setting them right herself. She would not have been nearly as well
pleased had Rose been handy about the house. One evening Henry caught
Sylvia wiping over all the dishes which Rose had wiped, and which
were still damp, the while she was fairly doubled up with suppressed
mirth.

"What in creation ails you, Sylvia?" asked Henry.

She extended towards him a plate on which the water stood in drops.
"Just see this plate that dear child thinks she has wiped," she
chuckled.

"You women do beat the Dutch," said Henry.

However, Rose did prove herself an adept in one respect. She had
never sewed much, but she had an inventive genius in dress, and, when
she once took up her needle, used it deftly.

When Sylvia