“Well, I’ll stay home, just where I belong, as father’s always sayin’. I guess I can be more comfortable there than anywhere else. We’ve got a new furnace, an’ we’ve had the sittin’-room fixed over, and it does seem a shame to shut up that big lovely house again. Why, how the sun does stream into our sittin’-room windows! They’re the old-fashioned kind, you know; they run way down to the floor. Father’ll have to be down in Washington part of the time, of course, an’ he can be comfortable at the hotel, especially if the girls are within reach. But I’m determined to stay near Carrie Cora.” Helen Briggs was so startled by Mrs. Burrell’s proposition that the thought of it made her abstracted. As the old lady rattled on about her own affairs, she noticed Helen’s abstraction. Suddenly she stopped, and, folding her hands in her lap, she exclaimed: “I suppose you think I’m awful!” Helen smiled and shook her head. “Why should I think you are awful, Mrs. Burrell?” “Oh, forcin’ my children on you,” the old lady replied, with a helplessness that made Helen speak out frankly. “It may be that we shall be glad to take the girls. It may be Providential for us. We need money now more than we’ve ever needed it.” “Well, we’ve got plenty of _that_!” Mrs. Burrell exclaimed with a nervous laugh. “I tell father----” “And if Douglas is willing,” Helen Briggs went on, “if he’s willing that I should take the responsibility----” At that moment Douglas Briggs returned with the old gentleman, whose face was shining with happiness. “Well, mother, I feel as if a big load was taken off my mind.” “Oh, Mr. Briggs,” the old lady broke out, “I knew a talk with you would make my husband feel right. He’s been groanin’ all Summer because he couldn’t get at you. He ain’t no hand at writin’ letters, an’ I jest wouldn’t let him go down to Washington while the weather was so hot. It was bad enough down to Auburn, though, as I tell everybody at home, no matter how hot it is, there’s always a cool spot in our house. You see, I keep the house closed all day long jest so’s the heat can’t get in.” Mrs. Burrell began to laugh. “Father often takes his paper an’ goes down cellar. He says it’s as good as goin’ into an ice-house. But I’m awful afraid he’ll catch his death of cold, an’ I know it’s bad for his rheumatism.” By this time Burrell had sunk into one of the big chairs and was waiting patiently for his wife to cease. “Well, ma,” he finally interrupted, “suppose you let me get a word in. Mr. Briggs is goin’ to take the case, an’ he’s goin’ to look after all my business here in New York. He says he ain’t competent to do it, an’ he says I ain’t got no right to put so much trust in him. He says he ain’t nothin’ but a tricky politician. I s’pose the truth is, he feels kind of too stuck up to get down to every-day business.”