Hildegarde learned other things the next morning besides how to do your marketing for two years in an hour. She brought away from Baumgarten’s the renewed impression that Mrs. Blumpitty was a person of some practical sense, and that Mr. Blumpitty, though he might be an authority upon the Mother Lode and an estimable character to boot, did in reality himself need a good deal of looking after. It is impossible to say just how the “unlogical” feminine mind—in this case young and ignorant as well—may arrive at so definite a conclusion out of a small assemblage of apparently trifling data. For Hildegarde’s judgment was not founded merely upon the outer man. Nor was it contributed to very largely by Mr. Blumpitty’s indifference to small economies, as shown in his readiness to order gallons of expensive “olive” when cotton-seed oil was as cheap as wholesome to cook with, and Mr. Blumpitty convicted by his wife of inability to detect any difference in taste. It was not merely that Mrs. Blumpitty was the one to offer reasons why methylated spirit, though cheap on the bill, was dearer in actual use than alcohol. It was not that he had forgotten after sixteen months’ experience, “what a cravin’ you get up there fur sweet and fur sour,” and what a failure the California dried fruit had turned out the year before. _Had_ he complained he couldn’t eat such insipid stuff till Mrs. Blumpitty had “livened” it with a dash of vinegar as well as sugar and spice? Wa-al, p’raps he had! “You mustn’t give me dried apples from any place nearer here than Michigan,” said Mrs. Blumpitty. The Baumgarten Brother had smiled a little, and said, “She knows.” The upshot of the morning was to give Hildegarde an inkling that the chief use of Mr. Blumpitty, so far as she was concerned, might be that he would keep her family soothed by the illusion that this respectable man, pledged to her service, was “going to see that everything was all right.” For the rest, should she not perhaps do well to imitate his spouse, and not expect any one to be wide awake in her interest who was half asleep before his own? Although he had said, “Ya-as, it’s all right about the ticket,” Miss Mar interviewed the steamship people on her own behalf. “Quite right!” they indorsed Mr. Blumpitty’s account of the matter. And as to the berths, Mr. Blumpitty already had twenty-eight, and had sent word he wanted a twenty-ninth, “a pertickler good one fur a lady.” “Noospaper woman I presoom,” said the agent politely. It seemed to be only the press that inspired such respect. She was more glad than ever of the offer that had come that morning from Eddie Cox, editor, now, of the “San Miguel Despatch.” “Yes,” she told the agent, “I am to be a Regular Correspondent.” In all sorts of ways she saw her status incomparably improved by falling in with Eddie Cox’s suggestion. It appeared to be necessary to stand well with a “noospaper” woman. “What accommodation can I have?” “Why, the best we got.”