"So I _was_!" I shrieked, in a whisper. I wrung my hands, and so great was my anguish that tears came into my eyes. "There! There, dearie!" said Aubrey, kindly. "Don't mind, little girl! It would have been too much with all the rest of your lovely luncheon. It will go _much_ better tonight." "You are an angel," I said, brokenly, "but I'll feel a little easier in my mind after I have killed Mary." It was hot, but I ran all the way to the house. I found Mary. The light of battle was in my eye, and she quailed before I spoke. "Where was that lobster salad?" I demanded. She turned pale, and sank into a chair. I simply stood glaring at her. She peeked through her fingers to see if I were relenting as usual, but as I still looked blood-thirsty, she began to cry. She covered her head with her apron, and rocked herself back and forth. "I forgot it, Missis dear! Kick me if you want to. I'll not say I don't deserve it, but since I burst me stomach I can't remember anything!" "Since you _what_?" I gasped, in horror. Mary took down her apron in triumph, and looked as important as though she had a funeral to go to. "Didn't you know, Missis? In my mother's last sickness--God rest her soul!--I had to lift her every day, and I burst me stomach. The doctor said so. That's why I forget things!" I stood staring at her. She was nodding her head, and smoothing her apron over her knees with a look of the greatest complacency. I thought of many, many things to say. And in several languages. But all of them put together would have been inadequate, so, without one word, I turned and walked slowly and thoughtfully away. That did not phase Mary in the least. She had looked for voluble and valuable sympathy--such as generally pours from me on the slightest provocation. She was so disappointed that she grew ugly and broke a soap-dish. "Aubrey," I said to the Angel, "how is your memory connected with your stomach?" "Very nearly," he answered, pleasantly. "My stomach reminds me of many things,--when it's time to eat, and when it's time to drink." "So then, if anything happened to that reminder, you might forget even to get dinner if you were a cook, or to serve it if you were a butler?" "Certainly." "I see," I answered, thoughtfully. "If I might beg to inquire the wherefore of this thirst for information--" hazarded the Angel, politely. "Oh, nothing much. Only Mary says she has burst her stomach, and that's why she forgets everything." Fortunately, Aubrey was sitting in his Morris chair. If he had flung himself about in that manner on a bench, he would have broken his back. "Mary," said Aubrey, when he could speak, "ought to go in a book." "Mary," I said, with equal emphasis, "ought to go into an asylum." It was not long after that that old Katie, the cook, came up-stairs, and beckoned me from the room.