“But when I walked into that room and seen that nest in the corner I was pretty nigh knocked over--and,” she added, “it takes consider'ble to do that to ME.” The assistant looked at her. “Yes,” he said, absently, “I should think it might. That is, I mean--I--I beg your pardon.” He paused and wiped his forehead with the towel. The young lady burst into a peal of laughter, in which the stout woman joined. The laugh was so infectious that even Brown was obliged to smile. “I apologize,” he stammered. “I didn't mean that exactly as it sounded. I'm not responsible mentally--yet--I guess.” “I don't wonder.” It was the stout woman who answered. The girl had turned away and was looking out the window; her shoulders shook. “I shouldn't think you would be. Hauled in bodily, as you might say, and shut up in a room to fight wasps! And by folks you never saw afore and don't know from Adam! You needn't apologize. I'd forgive you if you said somethin' a good deal worse'n that. I'm long past the age where I'm sensitive about my weight, thank goodness.” “And we ARE so much obliged to you.” The girl was facing him once more, and she was serious, though the corners of her mouth still twitched. “The whole affair is perfectly ridiculous,” she said, “but Mrs. Bascom was frightened and so was I--when I had time to realize it. Thank you again.” “You're quite welcome, I'm sure. No trouble at all.” The assistant turned to go. His brain was beginning to regain a little of its normal poise, and he was dimly conscious that he had been absent from duty quite long enough. “Maybe you'd like to know who 'tis you've helped,” observed the stout woman. “And, considerin' that we're likely to be next-door neighbors for a spell, I cal'late introductions are the proper thing. My name's Bascom. I'm housekeeper for Miss Ruth Graham. This is Miss Graham.” The young lady offered a hand. Brown took it. “Graham?” he repeated. “Where?” Then, remembering a portion of what Seth had told him, he added, “I see! the--the artist?” “My brother is an artist. He and his friend, Mr. Hamilton, own this bungalow. They are abroad this summer, and I am going to camp here for a few weeks--Mrs. Bascom and I. I paint a little, too, but only for fun.” Brown murmured a conventionality concerning his delight at meeting the pair, and once more headed for the door. But Mrs. Bascom's curiosity would not permit him to escape so easily. “I thought,” she said, “when I see you standin' over there by the lights, that you must be one of the keepers. Not the head keeper--I knew you wa'n't him--but an assistant, maybe. But I guess you're only a visitor, Mister--Mister--?” “Brown.” “Yes, Mr. Brown. I guess you ain't no keeper, are you?” “I am the assistant keeper at present. Yes.”