"I don't know--I'll go in and ask her." "Excuse me, Miss," began Mrs. Smithers, before Dorothy had a chance to speak, "but am I to 'ave my old rooms?" "Which rooms were they?" "These 'ere, back of the kitchen. My own settin' room and bedroom and kitchen and pantry and my own private door outside. Your uncle was allers a great hand for bein' private and insistin' on other folks keepin' private, that 's wot 'e was, but God rest 'is soul, it didn't do the poor old gent much good." "Certainly," said Dorothy, "take your old rooms. And can you milk a cow?" Mrs. Smithers sighed. "I ain't never 'ad it put on me, Miss," she said, with the air of a martyr trying to make himself comfortable up against the stake, "not as a regler thing, I ain't, but wotever I'm asked to do in the line of duty whiles I'm dwellin' in this sufferin' and dyin' world, I aims to do the best wot I can, w'ether it's milkin' a cow, drownin' kittens, or buryin' a cat wot can't stay buried." "We have breakfast about half-past seven," went on Dorothy, quickly; "luncheon at noon and dinner at six." "Wot at six?" demanded Mrs. Smithers, pricking up her ears. "Dinner! Dinner at six." "Lord preserve us," said Mrs. Smithers, half to herself. "Your uncle allers 'ad 'is dinner at one o'clock, sharp, and 'e wouldn't like it to 'ave such scandalous goin's on in 'is own 'ouse." "You're working for me," Dorothy reminded her sharply, "and not for my uncle." There was a long silence, during which Mrs. Smithers peered curiously at her young mistress over her steel-bowed spectacles. "I'm not so sure as you," she said. "On account of the cat 'avin come back from 'is grave, it wouldn't surprise me none to see your uncle settin' 'ere at any time in 'is shroud, and a-askin' to 'ave mush and milk for 'is supper, the which 'e was so powerful fond of that I was more 'n 'alf minded at the last minute to put some of it in 's coffin." "Mrs. Smithers," said Dorothy, severely, "I do not want to hear any more about dead people, or resurrected cats, or anything of that nature. What's gone is gone, and there's no use in continually referring to it." At this significant moment, Claudius Tiberius paraded somewhat ostentatiously through the kitchen and went outdoors. "You see, Miss?" asked Mrs. Smithers, with ill-concealed satisfaction. "Wot's gone ain't always gone for long, that's wot it ain't." Dorothy retreated, followed by a sepulchral laugh which grated on her nerves. "Upon my word, dear," she said to Harlan, "I don't know how we're going to stand having that woman in the house. She makes me feel as if I were an undertaker, a grave digger, and a cemetery, all rolled into one." "You're too imaginative," said Harlan, tenderly, stroking her soft cheek. He had not yet seen Mrs. Smithers. "Perhaps," Dorothy admitted, "when she gets that pyramid of crape off her head, she'll seem more nearly human. Do you suppose she expects to wear it in the house all the time?" "Miss Carr!"