“There is another basket to be taken to Mrs. Lambert’s cook, who comes down all this way because of one of the footmen being the cousin of my poor dead mother; so look sharp and get the things there in time,” said Boyce, swinging a basket up to the counter. “Tell her every article is choice, as choice can be, such as we don’t give to common customers, by no manner of means. There, now, heave away!” CHAPTER XI. GOSSIP IN THE BASEMENT. James received the basket, and carried it off manfully, but began to drag in his walk, and set the heavy load down for a moment’s rest after he had carried it a block or two, for his spirit ran far beyond his strength, poor fellow! When he entered the spacious kitchen in Mrs. Lambert’s dwelling, the perspiration was standing in drops on his forehead and he staggered in his walk. Two or three servants were in the kitchen, gathered in a group around a sallow and highly dressed young lady, whose French cap was in a flutter from the active movement of her head, and whose hands were now and then taken from the pockets in her apron to illustrate what she was saying with peculiar emphasis. So occupied and interested was this group that no one observed the tired boy, who stood panting over the basket he had placed upon the floor, waiting for some one to claim its contents. Even the cook, whose duty it was, stood by her table with the rolling-pin resting motionless on a half-formed pie-crust, her hands white with flour, and her mouth open with eager curiosity, listening to the female in that French cap so intently that she had no eyes nor ears for anything else. “I tell you the man was a total stranger. Old Storms can’t remember ever seeing him before—and he remembers every one that ever came here since the deluge. He protested against the man’s coming into the garden, and held the gate to with all his might; but the stranger just pushed him aside, and tramping across the garden, made straight for the conservatory without a word, as if everything belonged to him.” “Did you ever see such impudence,” said a jaunty footman whose eyes were bent admiringly on the speaker. She nodded an assent, and proceeded with her narrative. “Old Storms followed after just as fast as he could hobble. First he heard a little scream, then a dead silence, and through the glass he could see the tall acacia-tree bending and fluttering as if a storm had struck it. Then came quick words. The man spoke low and steadily, but madam’s voice rose high and sharp as no one ever heard it before; and when old Storms looked in, she was white as a ghost, and shaking like a leaf. She saw his face peeping through the door, and lifting her arms, motioned-him away, while her eyes seemed to shine right through him like burning stars.”