“Are you afraid of him?” asked her protectress. “Yes, madam, mortally afraid; he will kill me. Do not let him come near me,” she implored in agony of mind. “What happened?” persisted the manageress. “Somehow he found out I had that cheque and wanted me to give it to him, but I would not and came to you. For it was all I had in the world, and I wanted it to get away and leave him.” “To leave him? But you have only been married a month.” “It seems like a hundred years of hell,” moaned the unhappy little bride. “He has been so cruel to me.” And then she told her story. “I am not really a kitchenmaid. I am Lady Mary ——, but I liked cooking, and mother wanted me to learn, so I used to go into the kitchen in the morning and play about. The _chef_ was charming to me, and—well, I think I must have been mad—I thought I had fallen in love with him, and I ran away and married him a month ago. From the first moment he has been bullying my family for money. He made me come away with him as his kitchenmaid until he got enough money out of my family to start a home of our own. But please do not let him come near me again. He will kill me! That cheque was from my aunt, for I had to tell her of my misery and disgrace. It was sent to enable me to get away and go to her home, where I should be safe.” “Do not worry any more about that,” said her protectress determinedly. “You shall come to my room now, and I will telegraph to your aunt and put things right.” She did so, and the girl was restored to her family. Strange as the story may sound, it is a true bill. * * * * * While on the subject of servants, the following is an interesting sidelight. A mistress offered a servant girl a seat for a theatre. The girl beamed with delight. Suddenly her face shadowed, and she asked: “Are there any countesses in it, ma’am?” “I don’t know. Why?” “Because I don’t think mother would like me to go and see a play with a countess in it, ma’am.” “And why not?” “Oh, because they are all so dreadfully wicked.” “Who says so?” asked the lady, amazed. “The books, ma’am.” “What books?” “The penny books and Sunday papers.” * * * * * When looking back on my delightful American trips and to my real good time there, one little crumpled rose-leaf returns to memory, which, at the time, was a minor annoyance, but since has often caused me to smile at its absurdity. Many and weird, truly, are the experiences and home truths one is vouchsafed while travelling. The last time I went to the States I intended to pay some visits, and as I was very overworked and tired I was persuaded to take a maid to look after me. That maid cost me a small fortune in money, as well as proving a constant anxiety, inasmuch as _I had to look after her_ continually. A child of five years could not have been more trouble.