"Oh, no--no, indeed," asserted the man, all the more hurriedly, because he never had thought of a "hired girl," and because he was rather fearfully wondering how much his father paid for the maids, anyway. There would have to be one, of course; but he wondered if his allowance would cover it, with all the rest. Still, he _could_ smoke a cigar or two less a day, he supposed, if it came to a pinch, and--but Helen was speaking. "Dear, dear, but you did give me a turn, Burke! You see, there'll just have to be a hired girl--that is, if you want anything to eat, sir," she laughed, showing all her dimples. (And Burke loved her dimples!) "I can't cook a little bit. I never did at home, you know, and I should hate it, I'm sure. It's so messy--sticky dough and dishes, and all that!" Again she laughed and showed all her dimples, looking so altogether bewitching that Burke almost--but not quite--stole a kiss. He decided, too, on the spot, that he would rather never smoke another cigar than to subject this adorable little thing at his side to any task that had to do with the hated "messy dough and sticky dishes." Indeed he would! Something of this must have shown in his face, for the little bride beamed anew, and the remainder of the drive was a blissfully happy duet of fascinating plans regarding this new little nest of a home. All this was at four o'clock. At eight o'clock Burke Denby came into their room at the hotel with a white face and tense lips. "Well, Helen, we're in for it," he flung out, dropping himself into the nearest chair. "What do you mean?" "Father has cut off my allowance." "But you--you've gone to work. There's your wages!" "Oh, yes, there are my--wages." Something in his tone sent a swift suspicion to her eyes. "Do you mean--they aren't so big as your allowance?" "I certainly do." "How perfectly horrid! Just as if it wasn't mean enough for him not to let us live there, without--" "Helen!" Burke Denby pulled himself up in his chair. "See here, dear, I shan't let even you say things like that about dad. Now, for heaven's sake, don't let us quarrel about it," he pleaded impatiently, as he saw the dreaded quivering coming to the pouting lips opposite. "But I--I--" "Helen, dearest, don't cry, please don't! Crying won't help; and I tell you it's serious business--this is." "But are you sure--do you know it's true?" faltered the young wife, too thoroughly frightened now to be angry. "Did you see--your father?" "No; I saw Brett." "Who's he? Maybe he doesn't know." "Oh, yes, he does," returned Burke, with grim emphasis. "He knows everything. They say at the Works that he knows what father's going to have for breakfast before the cook does." "But who is he?" "He's the head manager of the Denby Iron Works and father's right-hand man. He came here to-night to see me--by dad's orders, I suspect." "Is your father so awfully angry, then?" Her eyes had grown a bit wistful.