Scarcely had Mollie wetted her brush before Ann the heavy-footed came up with an inflamed face and red eyes. "The pain was horrible," as she expressed it, "and was not to be borne. Would Miss Mollie spare her for half an hour, and she would get Mr. Grainger's young man to pull the tooth out?" "Oh yes, Ann, certainly," returned Mollie, who was tender-hearted. But when Ann had withdrawn with a snorting sob, she mused with some perplexity over all the ills to which maids-of-all-work were liable. Ann had looked so strong when they had engaged her, and yet she was always complaining of something. She was addicted to heavy colds in her head, and to a swollen face, sometimes diversified by an earache. She was a good-tempered, willing creature, but her infirmities were great, and more than once Waveney had advised Mollie to send her away. "But she is so honest," Mollie would plead, "and she is so devoted to Mrs. Muggins," and so Ann had been suffered to remain. Noel took her off to the life. He would tie up his face with a wisp of flannel and sit hugging the cat for ten minutes at a time. "Was it a poorty leddy, then, and did she want the poor little chickabiddies?" Ann would choke with suppressed laughter when she came in to lay the table. "Ain't it natural, Miss Mollie? and it is just what I did say to Mrs. Muggins." Mollie was studying the chrysanthemum pensively when Annie put her head in again. "The fire must not get low, Miss Mollie, because of the cake." Then Mollie jumped up in dismay. Ann was going out, and leaving that precious cake--Noel's birthday cake--and it was such a nice one! She had made it herself, and it had beautiful pink-and-white icing on the top. That her cake should be spoilt was a thought not to be endured for a moment. She knew what Ann's fires were--black, smoky concerns. As Mollie rushed into the kitchen the front door bell rang, and Ann, with her hat on, admitted a visitor. "A gentleman, Miss Mollie, and I have shown him up in the studio." But Mollie, whose face was in the oven, did not hear this; her whole attention was absorbed by her cake--menu cards were forgotten. She stirred the fire, put on coals, and then sat down on the rug to watch the oven. Meanwhile, the visitor walked briskly into the studio. He was a small, dark man, and his dress was somewhat Bohemian; he had a brown velveteen coat, and a yellow rose in his buttonhole, and he had bright, clear eyes, that saw everything worth seeing, and a good deal that ordinary folk failed to see--not that people always found this out. He had plenty of time for observation, and when he had grown a little weary of his solitude, he made a tour of the room. He stood for some time by Mollie's painting table. The menu cards struck him as very pretty and graceful in their design.