“Of course _you’re_ used to it,” she would say, whenever she had made a glaring mistake, “but _I’ve_ never been outside my own home before.” She liked to bring her lunch with her, sandwiches and so on which the hotel put up for her--as well as fruit and cake which she purloined from the dinner table--and she made a great ceremony of spreading out a little embroidered doily on the desk, on which to lay her food. “I do love to make things a little bit dainty and homelike,” she told Mr. Petersen. “You don’t mind, do you?” But the doily was soon very far from dainty. Mr. Petersen thought he would not care to eat anything that had lain on it. He felt sorrier than ever for the poor little woman when he saw her sitting before it, so daintily eating thick ham sandwiches, and adding new bits of butter and strings of fat to her homelike tablecloth. In the course of time, the rats ate it, lace and all, and she had nothing daintier than several sheets of his best type-writing paper, fresh every day, on which to lay out her repast. It began to dawn upon her before very long that she was not altogether indispensable; that Mr. Petersen and Miss Layne could manage the office very well without her. So she began entreating them to teach her, anything and everything. The books, especially. And, as she wrote a good enough hand, and apparently took great pains, Mr. Petersen allowed her to post certain items, providing she didn’t try to write in any of her own totals. She enjoyed doing this; she used to ask Mr. Petersen for “the books” as early in the morning as possible, because she liked to see him open the safe and hand these precious volumes to her. But she was detected in an awful deed. He _saw_ her, with his own eyes, carefully tearing out one of the numbered pages. “Mrs. Naylor!” he cried. “What are you doing?” She looked up, blushing crimson. “I was going to copy it all again,” she explained pitifully. “I hadn’t written it very nicely. I didn’t have a proper pen. And I did take such pride in having it all look nice!” The books went back to Miss Layne again, while Mr. Petersen invented tasks for Minnie. She took her work with the utmost seriousness. One day Mr. Petersen surprised her wiping away a surreptitious tear. “Now, then!” he said kindly, “What’s the matter?” She tried to answer cheerfully, but her voice failed. “Sandra doesn’t seem well,” she said, “I don’t know--her throat----” “But, my dear Mrs. Naylor, why didn’t you stay home? You mustn’t worry yourself like this!” “I didn’t want to neglect my work,” she said. And she meant it; she had, in Minnie-fashion, made herself believe that she was essential, that her absence would cause trouble. She _had_ to believe this; her vanity would have suffered too cruelly otherwise. Mr. Petersen assured her and reassured her, almost begged her to go home, even appealed to Miss Layne, who answered, in what a tone, that she _thought_ she could manage alone.