"I should uncommonly like to know who did this--whether Sally or the woman," she exclaimed, examining the work she had to do. One of Mr. Page's new shirts had been torn in the washing, and she was about to mend the rent. "That woman has a heavy hand: and Sally a careless one. It ought not to have been ironed." The door opened, and John Drench came in. When he saw that Mr. Page was asleep, he walked up the room towards Miss Susan. In the past twelvemonth--for that amount of time had rolled on since the trouble about Jessy and her mysterious disappearance--John Drench had had time to return to his first allegiance (or, as Miss Susan mentally put it, get over his folly); and he had decidedly done it. "Did you want anything?" asked Susan in a cold tone. For she made a point of being short with him--for his own benefit. "I wanted to ask the master whether he'd have that ditch made, that he was talking about," was the answer. "There's no hurry about it: not much to be done anywhere while this weather lasts." She made no reply. John Drench stood, waiting for Mr. Page to wake, looking alternately at the snow and at Miss Susan's steel thimble and nimble fingers. Very deftly was she doing the work, holding the linen gingerly, that the well-ironed bosom and wristbands might not get creased and unfit the shirt for wear. He was thinking what a good wife she would make: for there was nothing, in the shape of usefulness, that Susan Page could not put her hand to, and put it well. "Miss Susan, I was going to ask you a question," he began, standing uncomfortably on one leg. "I've been wanting to do it for a good bit now, but----" "Pick up my cotton," said Miss Susan tartly, dropping a reel purposely. "But I believe I have wanted courage," resumed he after doing as he was bid. "It _is_ a puzzling task to know how to do it for the best, and what to say. If you----" Open flew the door, and in came Miss Page, in her white kitchen apron. Her sleeves were rolled above her elbows, her floured hands were lightly wiped. John Drench, interrupted, thought he should never have pluck to speak again. "Susan, do you know where that old red receipt-book is?" she asked, in a low tone, glancing at her sleeping father. "I am not certain about the proportions for the lemon cake." "The red receipt-book?" repeated Susan. "I have not seen it for ever so long." "Nor I. I don't think I have had occasion to use it since last Christmas-Eve. I know I had to look at it then for the lemon-cake. Sally says she's sure it is somewhere in this room." "Then you had better send Sally to find it, Abigail." Instead of that, Miss Page began searching herself. On the book-shelves; on the side-board; in all the nooks and corners. It was found in the drawer of an unused table that stood against the wall. "Well, I declare!" she exclaimed, as she drew it out. "I wonder who put it in here?"