Early hours had been the rule at the Jack-o'-Lantern ever since the feathered sultan with his tribe of voluble wives had taken up his abode on the hilltop. Indeed, as Harlan said, they were obliged to sleep when the chickens did--if they slept at all. So it was not yet seven one morning when Dorothy went in from the chicken coop, singing softly to herself, and intent upon the particular hammer her husband wanted, never expecting to find Her in the kitchen. "I--I beg your pardon?" she stammered, inquiringly. A gaunt, aged, and preternaturally solemn female, swathed in crape, bent slightly forward in her chair, without making an effort to rise, and reached forth a black-gloved hand tightly grasping a letter, which was tremulously addressed to "Mrs. J. H. Carr." "My dear Madam," Dorothy read. "The multitudinous duties in connection with the practice of my profession have unfortunately prevented me, until the present hour, from interviewing Mrs. Sarah Smithers in regard to your requirements. While she is naturally unwilling to commit herself entirely without a more definite idea of what is expected of her, she is none the less kindly disposed. May I hope, my dear madam, that at the first opportunity you will apprise me of ensuing events in this connection, and that in any event I may still faithfully serve you? "With kindest personal remembrances and my polite salutations to the distinguished author whose wife you have the honour to be, I am, my dear madam, "Yr. most respectful and obedient servant, "Jeremiah Bradford. "Oh," said Dorothy, "you're Sarah. I had almost given you up." "Begging your parding, Miss," rejoined Mrs. Smithers in a chilly tone of reproof, "but I take it it's better for us to begin callin' each other by our proper names. If we should get friendly, there'd be ample time to change. Your uncle, God rest 'is soul, allers called me 'Mis' Smithers.'" Somewhat startled at first, Mrs. Carr quickly recovered her equanimity. "Very well, Mrs. Smithers," she returned, lightly, reflecting that when in Rome one must follow Roman customs; "Do you understand all branches of general housework?" "If I didn't, I wouldn't be makin' no attempts in that direction," replied Mrs. Smithers, harshly. "I doesn't allow nobody to do wot I does no better than wot I does it." Dorothy smiled, for this was distinctly encouraging, from at least one point of view. "You wear a cap, I suppose?" "Yes, mum, for dustin'. When I goes out I puts on my bonnet." "Can you do plain cooking?" inquired Dorothy, hastily, perceiving that she was treading upon dangerous ground. "Yes, mum. The more plain it is the better all around. Your uncle was never one to fill hisself with fancy dishes days and walk the floor with 'em nights, that's wot 'e wasn't." "What wages do you have, Sa--Mrs. Smithers?"