“Why, mother,” said Agatha, “that is really too bad. It is the third Saturday she has missed, and their baby is sick, you know.” “I know it,” said Mrs. Foster, looking more troubled still; “but what can I do? There will be company to tea, and cook cannot leave the kitchen to answer the bell; she can not even attend to the downstairs bell; it rings every few minutes on Saturdays; besides, there is extra work for her to do, and somebody must set the table for her. I don’t suppose either of you could give her a lift, could you, and let Hester go?” There was inquiry in the mother’s tone, but no expectation. Agatha lifted her eyebrows, but there was a difficult spot in her embroidery just then, so she made no reply; but Lorene turned quite away from the piano to answer: “Why, mother, how could we? I have my practicing to do; I have to sing twice to-morrow, you know. Of course that would not take me long, but we couldn’t run to the door every time the bell rang, could we, and receive callers at the same time?” “And as for setting the table,” said Agatha, who had righted her embroidery and was taking neat stitches, “I never could get all the things on a table. It wouldn’t be possible for me to set it for company.” “I suppose it cannot be arranged,” said Mrs. Foster. “I must finish Grandma’s cap so she can wear it this evening; her other is really unfit, and I have several stitches to take for Celia, as well. Hester must wait another week. I told her so; but she seemed so disappointed that I wondered if there were not some way to plan it.” “Perhaps she can run down there after tea to see how the baby is,” Lorene said, but Mrs. Foster shook her head. “Cook will need her to look after things in the kitchen while she waits on table, and it will be quite dark before we shall be through; she could not go alone after dark.” It was Agatha’s turn to sigh. “We need a second girl,” she said; “it is ridiculous for a family of our size to try to get along with only cook, and that little bit of a Hester.” “We shall certainly have to get along,” was her mother’s answer, spoken with quiet positiveness; “you know as well as I that we can not afford more help this season.” Meantime Celia, her fingers still busy with the masses of flowers she was trying to arrange in a basket for carrying, had listened, her face growing more and more gravely thoughtful.