“That's right, be insultin'!” Myrtella flared up haughtily; “throw it in my face that I'm hard to please, and ain't willin' to put up with any old place I come to.” “Now I wouldn't put it that I was throwing it in yer face exactly,” began Phineas, anxious to propitiate. “Which means I'm a story-teller?” Myrtella squared herself for action. “Oh, come on along,” coaxed Phineas; “no harm's meant. Go on an' tell us what you left fer.” “Who said I'd left? Puttin' words in my mouth I never thought of utterin'! I ain't left, and what's more I ain't going to. I got a good place.” Phineas whistled an aggravatingly attenuated note of surprise: “The lady you are working for must be a deef-mute.” “She is. The same as you'll be some day. She's been dead three years.” The triumph with which she made this announcement put a momentary quietus on Phineas, and enabled her to proceed: “It's a widower gentleman with three children that I'm cookin' for, and I ain't set eyes on one of 'em except at meal times since I hired to 'em. Queerington's their names, out on College Street, right around the corner from the Immanuel Church. He's a teacher or something, one of them bookwormy men, whose head never pays no attention to what the rest of him is doing. 'Take charge,' said he, 'of everything, do the ordering, and cooking, and don't bother me with nothing.'” “But does he bother you?” put in Phineas astutely; “that's the real point.” “Wasn't I just tellin' you that he didn't? He's been off on a trip to Virginia; gets home to-night. I've got the whole house in the pa'm of my hand, from cellar to attic. Miss Connie, she's the oldest, as flighty as a pidgeon and head so full of boys she don't pay no attention to another livin' thing. Then there's Miss Hattie, the second one, jes' at that spiteful thirteen age, but so busy peckin' on her sister, she ain't no time left for me--” “Thought you said there was three children,” put in Maria mildly. “I did. You didn't think I lied, did you? Always ready to snatch up a person's words before they git 'em out of their mouth! The third one is a boy, Bertie they call him, sick and spin'ly, but a right nice little fellow. Where'd Chick go?” “He's settin' out there on the door-step. Did you hear 'bout our shootin'?” “Maria was tryin' to tell me, but she didn't seem to have nothin' clear to tell. Who do you think done it?”