Seated at the dinner table, the publisher was very large, very ruddy, very imposing. He had a trick of imbibing his food solemnly, with a judicial air which sent apprehensive chills coursing down Cicely's spine, as she watched him pursing up his lips over the salad and nibbling daintily at the macaroni. The dinner was good, as far as it went. Of so much she was certain, for Susan was an expert in plain cookery, and, in her own cooking class, Cicely had shown herself past master in the art of entrées. It only remained to be seen whether or not she could succeed in getting the supplies to and from the table without losing off her cap or dropping too many of the forks. Just outside the door, Allyn was toiling handily in her behalf; and, strange to say, she was free from the obstacle she had most feared, that Melchisedek would get under her feet at some critical moment, and project her headlong, roast and all, upon the smooth bald pate of Mr. Gilwyn. To her relief, the dog had mysteriously vanished. She was too glad to be rid of him to care whence or wherefore he had gone. Little by little, she entered into the spirit of her part. At first, she had been a little frightened at what she had undertaken. She feared a break, either of ceremony or china. Then, as she had time to watch the guest and accustom herself to his ways and his appetite, she devoted her energy to plying him with goodies, bending beside him with grave and deferential mien, then straightening up again to pass through a dumb show of mirth above his august head. Theodora was talking away valiantly, sternly resolved to do what credit she could to the family; but Billy, at the foot of the table, was sorely taxed to keep up his dignity. Suddenly Theodora turned to the maid. "Cicely dear," she said; "I wish you would give me another spoon." Above Mr. Gilwyn's head, Cicely shook her fist at Theodora. "Yes, ma'am," she said respectfully.