“Those are supposed to be cookies,” he admitted. “Are they? Yes, yes. Mr. Atkins responsible for them?” “No--o. I'm afraid those are one of my experiments, under Mr. Atkins's directions and orders. I'm rather proud of those cookies, myself.” “You'd ought to be. There, there!” with a smile, “I guess you think I'm pretty free with my criticism and remarks, don't you? You must excuse me. Housekeepin'--'specially the cookin' part--is my hobby, as you might say, and I was interested to see how a couple of men got along with the job. I mustn't set around and keep you from your work. You might want to make some more cookies, or somethin'.” The substitute assistant laughed aloud. “I wasn't thinking of it,” he said; “but I shall be glad to make the attempt if it would afford you amusement.” Mrs. Bascom laughed, too. “I guess you're better natured than I thought you was,” she observed. “It might amuse me some, I will admit, but I ain't got the time. I came to borrow some butter, if you've got any to spare. Down here we're as far from supplies as the feller that run the Ark I was mentionin', old Noah himself.” Brown took the bowl from her hands and went to the pantry to get the butter. When he turned again she was standing by the door, one hand hidden beneath her apron. She took the bowl with the other. “Much obliged,” she said. “I'll fetch this back soon's the grocery cart comes. Miss Graham made arrangements to have him drive across every Saturday. Or, rather, I arranged for it myself. Her head's too full of paintin' and scenery to think of much else. I tell her you can't eat an ile paintin'--unless you're born a goat. Good-by.” She went away. Brown chuckled and went on with his account of stock. Seth “turned out” rather early that day. At half past one he appeared in the kitchen, partially dressed. “Where in time is my shirt?” he demanded impatiently. “Your what?” “My shirt. I thought I took it off out here. Could have sworn I did. Guess likely I didn't, though. Must be gettin' absent-minded.” He was on his way back to the bedroom when his helper called. “You did take it off out here,” he cried. “It was on that chair there. I remember seeing it. Probably it has fallen on the floor somewhere.” Atkins returned, grumbling that the kitchen floor was a “healthy place to heave a shirt.” “Where is it?” he asked after a hurried search. “I can't find it nowheres. Didn't put it in the fire, did ye?” “Of course I didn't. I saw it. . . . Why, I remember that woman's picking it up when she sat down.” “Woman? What woman?” “That Baskin--Buskin--whatever her name is. The housekeeper at the bungalow.” “Was she--HERE?” Seth's question was almost a shout. His helper stared at him. “Yes,” he answered; “she was. She came to borrow some butter.” “To--to borrow--butter?”