“Anyway, we won’t cross any bridges till we get to them, precious.” “That’s in my book of Vallable Inf’mation,” Jimmy said proudly. “I copied it out o’ Peg’s. You have to get to bridges b’fore you cross ’em; you can’t get over any other way. I told that to Peg, ’n’ he said it was a Vallable Inf’mation, ’n’ he wrote it down in his book in red ink. We tell each other things to write down. I like Peg, an’ he likes me; but we don’t love Miss Cottle. Peg says, in his opinion, she’s an ornary female, even if she can spell. Peg says spellin’ ain’t everythin’.” As the days passed, this particular bridge of Barbara’s own building loomed large in the landscape of her every day, always retreating mirage-like into the misty horizon of her to-morrow. Martha Cottle was of the opinion that it was a mighty queer performance; she discussed the subject with Barbara with ever-recurring interest and poignancy in the intervals of her work. Miss Cottle was a woman bent upon an excruciating cleanliness and order, and the immaculate back steps and the painfully scoured kitchen floor uprose as altars upon which she daily offered oblations and sacrifices of all the gentler amenities of life. “That young one,” as she began to call Jimmy, together with Peg Morrison, appeared to vie with one another in wanton profanation of these hallowed precincts. “It’s enough,” the worthy spinster assured Barbara, her nose and eyes reddened with animosity, “to make a saint mad clear through. Once you’re out of the house for good I’ll see to it that they wipe their feet _before they eat_.” The veiled threat in the last words was not lost on Mr. Morrison. “Me an’ the Cap’n hes et our victuals together more’n once in the loft t’ the barn,” he observed placidly. “‘N’ we kin do it ag’in on a pinch. I kin cook ’s well ’s some others I c’d name, an’ I will, if necessary.” Barbara, with one foot on her bridge of passage, strove to reconcile these opposing forces. “Miss Cottle,” she assured Peg, “is really a very conscientious woman. She’ll keep everything clean and comfortable for you and Jimmy.” “You bet she’s conscientious, Miss Barb’ry,” acquiesced the old man dryly. “So’s a skunk. Y’ reelly can’t beat them animals fer a conscientious pufformance of their duty, es they see it. But it ain’t what you’d call reelly pleasant fer the dog.” “But you’ll try, won’t you, Peg, to get along with Miss Cottle?” implored Barbara. “If she should leave you after I’m gone, I can’t think what Jimmy would do.”