The boy in the doorway gave one glance at Elliott's tear-stained face and came quietly into the room. "Sure," he said, picking up a dish-cloth and gingerly reaching for a tumbler. "Which end do you take 'em by, top or bottom?" Stannard wiping dishes, and with Bruce Fearing! The sight was so strange that Elliott's broom stopped moving. The two boys at the dish-pan chaffed each other good-naturedly; their jokes might have seemed a little forced, had you examined them carefully, but the effect was normal and cheering. Now and then they threw a word to the girl and the pile of clean dishes grew under their hands. Elliott's broom began to move again. Something warm stirred at her heart. She felt sober and humble and ashamed and--yes, happy--all at once. How nice boys were when they were nice! Then she remembered something. "Oh, Stan, wasn't it to-day you were going home?" "Nix," Stannard replied. "Guess I'll stay on a bit. School hasn't begun. I want to go nutting before I hit the trail for home." It was a different-looking kitchen the boys left half an hour later and a different-looking girl. Bruce lingered a minute behind Stannard. "We haven't had any telegram," he said. "Remember that. And as for things in here, I wouldn't let 'em bother me, if I were you! You can't do everything, you know. Keep cool, feed us the stuff folks send in, and let some things slide." "Mother Jess doesn't let things slide." "Mother Jess has been at it a good many years, but I'll bet she would now and then if things got too thick and she couldn't keep both ends up. There's more to Mother Jess's job than what they call housekeeping." "Oh, yes," sighed Elliott, "I know that. But just what do you mean, Bruce, that I could do?" He hesitated a minute. "Well, call it morale. That suggests the thing."