“Father was bound he wouldn't,” her sister wrote her; “but I stood right up to him, I can now I'm married!--and Gerald too--that he'd no right to take it out of mother even if he was mad with you. He made a fuss about your paying for the girl--but that was only showing off--_he_ couldn't pay for her just now--that's certain. And she does very well--a good strong girl, and quite devoted to mother.” And then she scolded furiously about her sister's “working out.” Diantha knew just how hard it was for her mother. She had faced all sides of the question before deciding. “Your mother misses you badly, of course,” Ross wrote her. “I go in as often as I can and cheer her up a bit. It's not just the work--she misses you. By the way--so do I.” He expressed his views on her new employment. Diantha used to cry over her letters quite often. But she would put them away, dry her eyes, and work on at the plans she was maturing, with grim courage. “It's hard on them now,” she would say to herself. “Its hard on me--some. But we'll all be better off because of it, and not only us--but everybody!” Meanwhile the happy and unhappy households of the fair town buzzed in comment and grew green with envy. In social circles and church circles and club circles, as also in domestic circles, it was noised abroad that Mrs. Edgar Porne had “solved the servant question.” News of this marvel of efficiency and propriety was discussed in every household, and not only so but in barber-shops and other downtown meeting places mentioned. Servants gathered it at dinner-tables; and Diantha, much amused, regathered it from her new friends among the servants. “Does she keep on just the same?” asked little Mrs. Ree of Mrs. Porne in an awed whisper. “Just the same if not better. I don't even order the meals now, unless I want something especial. She keeps a calendar of what we've had to eat, and what belongs to the time of year, prices and things. When I used to ask her to suggest (one does, you know: it is so hard to think up a variety!), she'd always be ready with an idea, or remind me that we had had so and so two days before, till I asked her if she'd like to order, and she said she'd be willing to try, and now I just sit down to the table without knowing what's going to be there.” “But I should think that would interfere with your sense of freedom,” said Mrs. Ellen A Dankshire, “A woman should be mistress of her own household.” “Why I am! I order whenever I specially want anything. But she really does it more--more scientifically. She has made a study of it. And the bills are very much lower.” “Well, I think you are the luckiest woman alive!” sighed Mrs. Ree. “I wish I had her!”