“Where is she going?” “I don't know; I mean she doesn't know. Her maternal grandmother was born in Trim, near Tara, in Meath, but she does not think she has any relations over here. She is entirely alone in the world, and that gives her a certain sentiment in regard to Ireland, which she heard a great deal about when she was a child. The maternal grandmother must have gone to Salem at a very early age, as Benella herself savours only of New England soil.” “Has she any trade, or is she trained to do anything whatsoever?” asked Francesca. “No, she hoped to take some position of 'trust.' She does not care at all what it is, so long as the occupation is 'interestin' work,' she says. That is rather vague, of course, but she speaks and appears like a nice, conscientious person.” “Tell us the rest; conceal nothing,” I said sternly. “She--she thinks that we have saved her life, and she feels that she belongs to us,” faltered Salemina. “Belongs to us!” we cried in a duet. “Was there ever such a base reward given to virtue; ever such an unwelcome expression of gratitude! Belong to us, indeed! We can't have her; we won't have her. Were you perfectly frank with her?” “I tried to be, but she almost insisted; she has set her heart upon being our maid.” “Does she know how to be a maid?” “No, but she is extremely teachable, she says.” “I have my doubts,” remarked Francesca; “a liking for personal service is not a distinguishing characteristic of New Englanders; they are not the stuff of which maids are made. If she were French or German or Senegambian, in fact anything but a Saleminian, we might use her; we have always said we needed some one.” Salemina brightened. “I thought myself it might be rather nice--that is, I thought it might be a way out of the difficulty. Penelope had thought at one time of bringing a maid, and it would save us a great deal of trouble. The doctor thinks she could travel a short distance in a few days; perhaps it is a Providence in disguise.” “The disguise is perfect,” murmured Francesca. “You see,” Salemina continued, “when the poor thing tottered along the wharf the stewardess laid her on the pile of wool sacks-” “Like a dying Chancellor,” again interpolated the irrepressible.