Martha snorted. "Jenkins knows 'is place," she said, jerking the round lid off the stove, and putting on the kettle. "Jenkins is a model," smiled the Boy. Then Martha looked round, her feminine curiosity, and perhaps a touch of jealousy, getting the better of her respectful discretion. She had seen so much, and heard so little; and she was a very old family servant. "What do you call _her_, Mr. Guy?" she asked, in a confidential whisper, with a jerk of the head toward the mulberry-tree. "Her?" repeated the Boy, surprised. Then his whole tone softened. It was so sweet to speak her name to some one. "I call her 'Christobel,'" he said, gently. But Martha wanted to know more. Martha was woman enough to desire an unshared possession of her own. She bent over the fire, stirring it through the bars. "Mr. Guy, sir, I suppose you don't--I suppose you do--that is to say, sir--Do you call _her_ what you've been pleased to call me?" "Eh, what?" said the Boy, vaguely. "Oh, I see. 'Christobel, my----' Oh, no, Martha. No, I don't! Not even when I feel most affectionate." Here the Boy was seized with sudden convulsions, slapped his knee noiselessly, and rocked on the kitchen table. He whispered it, in an ecstasy of enjoyment. "'Christobel, my duck!' Oh, lor! 'Christobel, my duck!' I hope I shall be able to resist telling her. I should have to own I had called Martha so. 'Christobel, my----'" Martha, wondering at the silence, looked round suddenly. But the Boy had that instant recovered, and was sitting gravely on the corner of the table. "Martha, my duck," he said, "to return to the original opening of this conversation: has Jenkins ever told you what a nice little wisp of hair you have, behind your left ear?" "Get along, sir!" retorted Martha, fairly blushing. "You're making game of me." "Indeed, I'm not," said the Boy, seriously. "If you made it into a curl, Martha, and fastened it with an invisible pin, it would be quite too fascinating. You ask Jenkins. I say, Martha? What's a placket?" "A placket, sir," said Martha, on her way to fetch something from a shelf near which hung the kitchen mirror; "a placket, sir, is a thing which shows when it shouldn't." "I see," said the Boy. "Then you couldn't exactly go about in one. Martha, whose goloshes are those, sitting on the mat in the hall?" Martha snorted. "An old woman's," she said, wrathfully. The Boy considered this. "And does the umbrella with the waist belong to the same old woman?" Martha nodded. "And the Professor's cap and gown, hanging near by?" Martha hesitated. "'Tain't always petticoats makes an old woman," she said, sententiously. "Martha, you are _pro_-foundly right," said the Boy. "Does the Professor stay to tea?" "Thank goodness no, sir. We draw the line at that, 'cept when Miss _H_ann comes too." "Who is Miss _H_ann?"