“Now, what do you suppose possessed that boy to shoot at a cook?” she asked, regarding the letter with a portentous frown. “Cooks are so awful hard to get nowadays. I don’t see why he didn’t shoot a tramp if he had to shoot somethin’.” “He wa’n’t tryin’ to shoot a cook, ’pears like,” then cried Lucinda—Lucinda’s voice, be it said, _en passant_, was of that sibilant and penetrating timbre which is best illustrated in the accents of a steamfitter’s file—“’pears like he was tryin’ for a cat.” “Not a bat,” said her mistress correctively; “it was a cat. You look at this letter an’ you’ll see. And, anyway, how could a man shootin’ at a cat hit a cook?—not ’nless she was up a tree birds’-nestin’ after owls’ eggs. You don’t seem to pay much attention to what I read to you, Lucinda; only I should think your commonsense would help you out some when it comes to a boy you’ve known from the time he could walk, an’ a strange cook. But, anyhow, that’s neither here nor there. The question that bothers me is, what’s to pay with this damage suit? I think myself five hundred dollars is too much for any cook’s arm. A cook ain’t in no such vital need of two arms. If she has to shut the door of the oven while she’s stirrin’ somethin’ on the top of the stove, she can easy kick it to with her foot. It won’t be for long, anyway, and I’m a great believer in making the best of things when you’ve got to.” Lucinda screwed up her face and made no comment. Lucinda’s face in repose was a cross between a monkey’s and a peanut; screwed up, it was particularly awful, and always exasperated her mistress. “Well, why don’t you say somethin’, Lucinda? I ain’t askin’ your advice, but, all the same, you can say anything if you’ve got a mind to.” “I ain’t got a mind to say anythin’,” the faithful maid rejoined. “I guess you hit the nail on the head that time,” said Aunt Mary, without any unnecessary malevolence concealed behind her sarcasm; then she re-read the note and frowned afresh. “Five hundred dollars is too much,” she said again. “I’m going to write to Mr. Stebbins an’ tell him so to-night. He can compromise on two hundred and fifty, just as well as not. Get me some paper and my desk, Lucinda. Now get a spryness about you.” Lucinda laid aside her work and forthwith got a spryness about her, bringing her mistress’ writing-desk with commendable alacrity. Aunt Mary took the writing-desk and wrote fiercely for some time, to the end that she finally wrote most of the fierceness out of herself. “After all, boys will be boys,” she said, as she sealed her letter, “and if this is the end I shan’t feel it’s money wasted. I’m a great believer in bein’ patient. Most always, that is. Here, Lucinda you take this to Joshua and tell him to take it right to mail. Be prompt, now. I’m a great believer in doin’ things prompt.” Lucinda took the letter and was prompt. “She wants this letter took right to the mail,” she said to Joshua, Aunt Mary’s longest-tried servitor.