“But who was the man? Why didn’t the madam order him out?” exclaimed the cook, grasping her rolling-pin with all the force of a large, heavy hand. “I only wish it had a been me.” “But it was madam who ordered old Storms out; she that stands everything from him, even to being snubbed about picking her own flowers,” answered the maid. “I don’t understand it. She must have known the man, yet she was afraid of him, she was white as a sheet.” “And quivering all over like a jelly,” broke in the cook. “Wasn’t that what you said, Ellen?” “I said nothing of the kind, cook,” answered the maid, with infinite disdain. “No one was talking of jellies, that I know of, so please to keep such comparisons for the kitchen.” The cook turned her back on the exasperated maid, and began rolling out her pie-crust with vigor, muttering to herself, “Sich airs! Just as if wearing a high-flying cap made some people better than other people.” “But you didn’t tell, Miss Ellen, what came of it all; which of the madam’s people was it who showed that strange person into the street?” inquired the dashing footman, who had listened so eagerly to Ellen’s story. “Which of ’em? Not you, Robert, by any manner of means. The truth was, old Storms kept guard over the conservatory a full half hour. Then the man came out, looking stern and white, as if he had been committing murder. He passed right by the old man without so much as looking at him, and tramped off through the garden-gate, wading right through a bed of heliotropes in full blossom, and coming up against that old white rose-bush, with the wren’s-nest over it. Then he stopped as if some one had shot him, and leaning his head against the post, shook till the leaves trembled and the branches rustled. “Old Storms could not wait to see anything more, for looking through the glass, he saw madam lying in a heap, with her head against the marble of the fountain, not a mite of color in her face, her hands, or her neck. At first he thought she was dead, and began to wring his old hands over her, and cry out so loud that the under-gardener heard him. Dropping everything he ran into the green-house and lifted her up while old Storms came in after me. “Of course, I went out with a flask of hartshorn in one hand, and aromatic vinegar in the other. That poor old fellow went before, with great round tears rolling down his cheek; but I was too frightened to cry, you may believe that. Why Mr. Robert there could have knocked me down with a feather.” “As if I could be hired to do anything so exceedingly unmanly,” said the footman, bowing low, with one hand on his heart, “the bare idea is wounding to—to—— Yes, wounding, Miss Ellen.” “But I didn’t mean it as such. The feathery idee was a comparison, not an actuality, Mr. Robert. Excuse me, I meant no harm; there isn’t a girl living who appreciates your superfluous qualities better than I do. Pray forgive me!”