“Louise, this is Miss Whitmore,” began Mrs. Denson, cheerfully, fortified by a fresh lungful of air. “They're after yuh t' go an' keep house for 'em, an' I guess yuh better go, seein' we got the house cleaned all but whitewashin' the cellar an' milk room an' kals'minin' the upstairs, an' I'll make Bill do that, an' 't won't hurt him a mite. They'll give yuh twenty-five dollars a month an' keep yuh all summer, an' as much longer as his sister stays. I guess yuh might as well go, fer they can't git anybody else that'll keep things up in shape an' be comp'ny fer his sister, an' I b'lieve in helpin' a neighbor out when yuh can. You go right an' pack up yer trunk, an' don't worry about me--I'll git along somehow, now the house-cleanin's most done.” Louise had been talking also, but her sister seemed to have a stronger pair of lungs, for her voice drowned that of the Countess, who retreated to “pack up.” The minutes dragged by, to the tune of several chapters of family history as voluminously interpreted by Mrs. Denson. Miss Whitmore had always boasted the best-behaved of nerves, but this day she developed a genuine case of “fidgets.” Once she saw Chip's face turned inquiringly toward the window, and telegraphed her state of mind--while Mrs. Denson's back was turned--so eloquently that Chip was swept at once into sympathetic good-fellowship. He arranged the cushion on the front seat significantly, and was rewarded by an emphatic, though furtive, nod and smile. Whereupon he leaned comfortably back, rolled a cigarette and smoked contentedly, at peace with himself and the world--though he did not in the least know why. “An' as I told Louise, folks has got t' put up with things an' not be huntin' trouble with a club all the time, if they expect t' git any comfort out uh this life. We ain't had the best uh luck, seems t' me, but we always git along somehow, an' we ain't had no sickness except when--” A confused uproar arose in the room above them, followed, immediately by a humpety bump and a crash as a small, pink object burst open a door and rolled precipitately into their midst. It proved to be one of the little Densons, who kicked feebly with both feet and then lay still. “Mercy upon us! Ellen, who pushed Sary down them stairs? She's kilt!” Della sprang up and lifted the child in her arms, passing her hand quickly over the head and plump body. “Bring a little cold water, Mrs. Denson. She's only stunned, I think.” “Well, it does beat all how handy you go t' work. Anybody c'd see t' you know your business. I'm awful glad you was here--there, darlin', don't cry--Ellen, an' Josephine, an' Sybilly, an' Margreet, you come down here t' me!”