er had her malady been physical. But Dan's
hypocrisy about the letter ruffled her into opposition. He knew
Bertha's handwriting as well as she did, and was doubtless equally
well acquainted with the contents of the letter; and this affectation
of ignorance must therefore mean something special. Probably he was
anxious to propitiate her with regard to whatever Bertha might be
writing about. But Beth was not to be managed in that way, and so she
let the letter be.

As she was leaving the room after lunch, Dan called after her: "You
have forgotten your letter."

"It doesn't matter," Beth answered. "Any time will do for that."

The letter was left there for days unopened, and it had the effect of
stopping the conversation at meals, for although Dan did not allude to
it again, he constantly glanced at it, and it was evident that he had
it on his mind.

At last, one day, when he came in, he said, "I have just seen Mrs.
Petterick, and she tells me Bertha wrote to you days ago, and has had
no answer."

"Indeed," Beth observed indifferently. "I shouldn't think she could
have anything to say to me that specially required an answer."

Dan fidgeted about a little, then burst out suddenly, "Why the devil
don't you open the girl's letter?"

"Because you pretended you didn't know who it was from," Beth said.

"I declare to God I never pretended anything of the kind," Dan
answered hotly.

Beth laughed. Then she went to the mantelpiece, took down the letter,
turned it over and displayed the huge monogram and scroll with
"Bertha" printed on it, with which it was bedizened, laughed again a
little, and threw the letter unopened into the fire, "There!" she
said. "Let that be an end of the letter, and Bertha Petterick too, so
far as I am concerned. She bores me, that girl; I will not be bothered
with her."

"Well, well!" Dan exclaimed pathetically, looking hard at the ashes of
the letter on the coals: "that's gratitude! I do my best to make an
honest living for you, and you repay me by affronting one of my best
patients. And what the unfortunate girl has done to offend you, the
devil only knows. I'm sure she would have blacked your boots for you
when she was here, she was so devoted."

"She _was_ pretty servile, I grant that," Beth answered dispassionately.
"But that is enough of Bertha Petterick, please. Here is the butcher's
bill for the last month, and the baker's, the milk, the wine, the
groceries, all nearly doubled on Be