The darkness hid the terrible expression upon Miss Bates’s face, but it did not conceal the frigidity of her tones as she took her elbows from the doctor’s gate. “Your sister’s got a job in giving you some of her college culture, Gassy Grafton,” she said to the small fold of light gingham which showed alongside the vine-clad porch post. She looked back over her shoulder to fire her last volley of ammunition. “I hope it will _amuse_ your mother,” she said. “If you’d all been a little less selfish about using her like a hack-horse when she was at home, you wouldn’t have to be sending jokes to her at a sanitarium, now.” “What on earth did you tell her that for?” asked Barbara, as Miss Bates swept around the corner. “She deserved it. She needn’t pick on you!” “But you can’t give people all they deserve, in this world, little sister.” “No, not always,” said Gassy. “But I always do when I can.” * * * * * Miss Bates’s opinion about the value of newspaper advertising seemed to be well founded. A week passed without an applicant for the vacant position in the Grafton kitchen. Barbara grew tired and cross and discouraged. The weather turned hot, and the sunny kitchen on the east side of the house seemed to harbor all the humidity of the day. The nurse at the sanitarium wrote that Mrs. Grafton was not improving as rapidly as she could wish. David’s hay fever began, and he went wheezing around the house in a state of discomfort that wrung Barbara’s sympathetic heart. The writing and the precious study-hour had to be abandoned. So it was with a feeling of relief that the over-worked girl saw a strange woman come through the office gate one morning. The newcomer was not at all prepossessing. Hair, eyes, and skin were of the uncertain whity-yellow of a peeled banana. Her shirt-waist bloused in the back as well as the front, and she had yet to learn the æsthetic value of sufficient petticoats. She stared uncertainly at Barbara as the latter opened the side door. “Did you wish to see any one?” asked Barbara, after a painful silence. “Yes, mam,” said the girl. “Whom do you want?” There was another long pause, during which the girl shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Then she said, “The lady, mam.” “Did you come to inquire about a position?” The young woman evidently concentrated her energy upon the question. Her mind moved so slowly and jerkily that Barbara, watching the process, was reminded of the working of an ouija board. She would not have been surprised to hear the girl squeak. But the query was beyond the newcomer. It was plain that vernacular must be tried. “Do you want a place?” The girl brightened a shade. “Yes, mam.” “Can you cook?” “No, mam.” “Wait upon the table?” “No, mam.” “Sweep and dust?” “No, mam.” “Can’t you bake at all?” “No, mam.” “Have you never cooked?” “No, mam.” “Well, what can you do?”