“My dear,” she said, with a wry little twist at the corner of her generous mouth, “I’ve come home to stay. I daresay you will find me capable of taking things as they are. I did it once before and I can do it again. Now, if you will draw me a nice warm tub; I’ll—I’ll—” she yawned voluptuously—“I’ll get in and sozzle a bit. And that reminds me, Jane. I shall never in any way interfere with you as housekeeper here. Your father assures me that you are a perfect manager. I was a very poor one in my day. I daresay we’d better let well enough alone. Don’t make it too hot, my dear—and do see if you can find my bath slippers in that bag over there by the door.” The express wagon with Mrs. Sage’s trunks arrived as Oliver, in despair, was preparing to depart as he had come, on Marmaduke Smith’s bicycle. He took fresh hope. Here was a chance to see Jane after all. With joyous avidity he offered to help Joe O’Brien lug the trunks upstairs. “Where do you want ’em, Jane?” he shouted from the bottom of the stairs. There was no answer. “Where shall we put them, Uncle Herbert?” he asked, his hands jammed deep in his pockets. “Bless my soul, I—I haven’t an idea,” groaned Mr. Sage, passing his hand over his brow. This act seemed to have cleared some of the fog from his brain. “Unless you put them in my study,” he suggested brightly. “They will fill it to overflowing, but—but I can think of no other place. Dear me, what a lot of them there are.” Fifteen minutes later, the trunks being piled high in the pastor’s little study, Oliver mopped his brow and expressed himself feelingly to Mr. Sage from the bottom of the porch steps. “I’ll make Uncle Horace sweat for this,” he growled. “If he hadn’t come nosing around this afternoon, I would have—At the same time, Uncle Herbert, I think Jane might have been allowed a minute or two to say hello to a fellow. Good Lord, sir, is—is this to be Jane’s job from now on?” “Sh! The windows are open, Oliver.” “Is she to be nothing but a lady’s maid to Aunt Josephine?” “We are so happy to have her with us, my dear boy, that—er—nothing—er—” “I understand, Uncle Herbert,” broke in Oliver contritely, noting the pastor’s distress. “I’m sorry I spoke as I did. Tell Jane I’ll call her up this evening. And please tell Aunt Josephine I am awfully keen to see her. I used to love her better than anything going, you know.” “It’s different now,” said Mr. Sage. “You are both considerably older than you were. Will you come up to-night?” “Yes, sir. I’ll come up and move the trunks for you, Uncle Herbert. So that you can have room to write next Sunday’s sermon,” he said, with his gay, whimsical smile. Then he pedaled slowly away on Marmaduke’s wheel, looking over his shoulder until the windows of the parsonage were no longer visible. CHAPTER XIX OLIVER COMPLAINS