When just at that moment there was a crash, and a hurtle, and a smothered squeal in the hall outside, and we all ran out to see what could be happening. I shall never forget it. Down the stairway from the second story, step after step, with a little bump on each, coasted Ernie. Her feet were stuck out straight before her, her arms were aloft, in one hand she bore a pitcher of ice-water, in the other a tumbler, while mother’s old silver serving tray rattled and rolled ahead. The poor child’s mouth was open, and every few steps she would emit a deprecating little squeak, as if to say:— “_I know I ought not to be tumbling downstairs. But what are you going to do about it?_” Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. _Bo_-gardus, who had started to go up in search of the photographs, stood midway of the flight, directly in the path of danger. “Ernie! Oh, Ernie!” I cried. “Look out! Look _out_ for _Mrs. Bo-gardus_!” “I c-c-c-can’t!” gurgled Ernie. “Let her g-get——” And then there was a second crash, and a splash, and a renewed series of squeals, and Mrs. Hudson, and Mrs. _Bo_-gardus, and Ernie, and the pitcher, and the silver tray, all came crashing and bumping down together in one ignominious tangle. Mother, and Mrs. Hancock, and Rose came running from various parts of the house. In a moment there was quite a crowd gathered. First Mrs. Hudson was picked up, spluttering and bewildered; next we rescued Mrs. _Bo_-gardus; then Ernie, who still clung desperately to her half-empty pitcher. All dignity, all sense of social circumstance, had vanished. The members of the dripping little group glared upon one another, humanly, democratically mad. “Here,” said Ernestine, thrusting out the pitcher resentfully to Mrs. Hudson, “I guess this belongs to you.” “_This_” was the ceremonial blond front, which had somehow come unpinned in the mêlée, and was now floating mermaid-wise in a few inches of ice-water at the bottom of the pitcher. Mrs. Hudson sniffed, fished out her crimps, and flapped them scornfully. “I leave this house to-morrow,” she remarked. “Children are all very well in their _place_!” “It wasn’t my _place_,” contradicted Ernie, wrathfully. “I slipped on the top step and tobogganed!” “Ernestine!” rebuked mother. “I trust you are not hurt,” she continued, turning to Mrs. _Bo_-gardus, who stood beside the newel-post, ruefully rubbing an elbow. “Not being a Christian Scientist, nor yet a gutta-percha image, I confess to a few bruises,” returned that lady, spitefully; after which she and Mrs. Hudson swept on their way upstairs, leaving us at gaze. “As if I meant to,” brooded Ernestine. “I’m not a Christian Scientist, myself. Why couldn’t they get out of the way, I’d like to know? and—_who’s Mrs. Bogardus, anyhow_?” For the first time the question was presented to us squarely. We gaped at one another, like so many goldfish. “That is so,” admitted Miss Brown in a timid voice, after a moment of deep thought. “Who is she?”