"Well!" I said. "Don't tell me you're not dressed yet. You've just got about time for the afternoon train." She gave me an imploring glance over the saucer. "You might just take a look at this, Miss Agnes," she said. "It jells around the edges, but in the middle--" "I'll send your trunk tomorrow," I said, "and you'd better let Delia make the jelly alone. You haven't much time, and she says she makes good jelly." She raised anguished eyes to mine. "Miss Agnes," she said, "that woman's never made a glass of jelly in her life before. She didn't even know about putting a silver spoon in the tumblers to keep 'em from breaking." I picked up "Bolivar County" and opened it, but I could see that the hands holding the saucer were shaking. "I'm not going, Miss Agnes," said Maggie. (I had, of course, known she would not. The surprising thing to me is that she never learns this fact, although she gives me notice quite regularly. She always thinks that she is really going, until the last.) "Of course you can let that woman make the jelly, if you want. It's your fruit and sugar. But I'm not going to desert you in your hour of need." "What do I need?" I demanded. "Jelly?" But she was past sarcasm. She placed the saucer on a table and rolled her stained hands in her apron. "That woman," she said, "what was she doing under the telephone stand?" She almost immediately burst into tears, and it was some time before I caught what she feared. For she was more concrete than I. And she knew now what she was afraid of. It was either a bomb or fire. "Mark my words, Miss Agnes," she said, "she's going to destroy the place. What made her set out and rent it for almost nothing if she isn't? And I know who rings the telephone at night. It's her." "What on earth for?" I demanded as ungrammatical and hardly less uneasy than Maggie. "She wakes us up, so we can get out in time. She's a preacher's daughter. More than likely she draws the line at bloodshed. That's one reason. Maybe there's another. What if by pressing a button somewhere and ringing that bell, it sets off a bomb somewhere?" "It never has," I observed dryly. But however absurd Maggie's logic might be, she was firm in her major premise. Miss Emily had been on her hands and knees by the telephone-stand, and had, on seeing Maggie, observed that she had dropped the money for the hackman out of her glove. "Which I don't believe. Her gloves were on the stand. If you'll come back, Miss Agnes, I'll show you how she was." We made rather an absurd procession, Maggie leading with the saucer, I following, and the cat, appearing from nowhere as usual, bringing up the rear. Maggie placed the jelly on the stand, and dropped on her hands and knees, crawling under the stand, a confused huddle of gingham apron, jelly-stains, and suspicion.