Why is everything always my fault, I wonder? "Well, I don't know," she said, slowly, "but it does seem as if Jimmie always gets into more troub--I mean, has more adventures when he and Faith are together than when he and I are alone. Oh, oh! What can be the matter with that cow! Oh, I wonder if she has killed my husband!" We all looked just in time to see the Guernsey gallop madly across the garden, plough her way through the sweet corn, and disappear gaily over the fence, heading for the trolley-tracks, with Amos a close second as she took the hurdle. Bee's English coachman, who took great pride in the kitchen-garden, hastily followed to see what damage she had done, but at Mrs. Jimmie's agonized entreaty to know what had become of Jimmie, I called him, and he came, respectfully touching his forelock in a way which Jimmie always said "was worth the price of admission." "I think she has about done for the Country Gentleman, ma'am. She has trampled it so it will never be any good." Mrs. Jimmie turned white, and leaned gaspingly on Lady Mary. "Trampled him!" she cried. "Oh, come! Come quickly, and see if she has killed him!" "My dear!" I cried, almost hysterical over her mistake. "The Country Gentleman is a kind of sweet corn--not Jimmie! See, there he is now. Look, dearest!" Sure enough, there came Jimmie, a trifle sheepish, but defiant. His derby hat was without a brim, the milk-pail was jammed together like a folding lunch-box, and had a little foam on the outside, as the sole product of his milking prowess. We asked no questions, but our eager faces demanded an explanation. He gave it,--terse as was his wont. "Well, I'll bet that damned cow never switches her tail in anybody's face again!" We needed no further description of what had happened. The picture was complete. Strange to say, Lady Mary seemed to comprehend better than any of us. She gurgled with laughter the whole evening, and lavished attentions upon Jimmie so flatteringly that he ceased to look furtively at me and became quite cocky before the evening was over, pretending that he had done all these things to help me entertain my guests. As we went up-stairs that night, Mrs. Jimmie clutched my arm, and, with eyes as big as stars, said, in a tense whisper: "My dear, we are invited to Combe Abbey! Think of it! To visit the Duchess of Strowther! Lady Mary is going to write to her mother immediately!" If it had been anybody except dear Mrs. Jimmie, I should have said: "Is she going to invite the cow, too?" But as it was, I squeezed back, and said, earnestly: "I am so glad, dear Mrs. Jimmie!" CHAPTER XI ON THE GENTLE ART OF WASTING OTHER PEOPLE'S TIME