“Surely He shall deliver thee,--Surely--Surely--” It rang in her ears like a voice, a reminder. “Yes, I know--” said her tired heart. She mustn’t get into the habit of walking out back doors when she didn’t like things. She really mustn’t. “Dear Jesus, please give me strength, courage--” She dashed the tears away and splashed cold water on her hot cheeks, then in answer to the third ringing of the buzzer appeared in the diningroom as if nothing had happened and quietly removed the glasses from the table. In her pretty little blue dress with her white collar and apron she looked a slender vision as she entered with her tray and was conscious at once that every eye was fixed upon her, whereupon her cheeks flamed the rosier, but she kept her eyes down upon her work and managed to get through the door with her heavy tray of glasses without breaking down. “Jove!” she heard the gruff voice say. “She looks as if she could teach if she wanted to.” “Yes, yes,” chimed in the falsetto, “quite pretty for a kitchen-maid, I should say.” “Quite too pretty, I should say,” said the cool voice of the lady guest, like a sharp, dividing steel, significant, insulting. Joyce trembled as she heard Mrs. Powers respond in her affected drawl: “Yas, I thought so myself. But what could I do? I’d have had to get dinner myself--” “Well, she seems to know how to cook,” growled Mr. Powers. By this time his soup was steaming at his place and he was regarding it with interest. Joyce caught his glance fixed pleasantly upon her as she went about placing the soup, and took heart. Perhaps all hope of a chance through Mr. Powers was not lost after all. “Surely He shall deliver thee. Surely--” The words kept ringing as she went back and forth from kitchen to diningroom, dreading each encounter more than the last. As the meal progressed it became evident that all were enjoying it and the men at least were loud in their praises of each new dish as it arrived. “Well, I say. These peas taste as if they had just been picked,” said the guest, and his host replied: “Say, Anne, these sweet potatoes beat anything we ever had. Get her to stay if you can. Pay her fifty dollars a week if you want to, only get her to stay!” Mrs. Powers turned a languid smile of disgust on her woman guest and answered scornfully: “Now, isn’t that just like a man? Candied sweet potatoes and a pretty face! That’s all they think about. I wish you’d see how she left the kitchen floor! And she had _plenty_ of time to clean it up before she began to get dinner.” “Well, if you ask me,” said her husband heartily, “I’d say cleaning kitchen floors wasn’t her job.” All these things she heard in stage whispers that were not intended for her ears, as she went back and forth bringing dishes and serving new courses.