The whity-yellow girl brightened again. It was evident that this time she was to vary her reply. “I kin milk, mam.” * * * * * Two hours later, Jack surveyed the new acquisition through the porch window. “I see we have an Angel of the House,” he said to Barbara, who had stretched her weary length in the hammock. “How came she here?” “She just blew in.” “In answer to your advertisement?” “No, she had never seen it.” Jack took another critical look through the window. “She doesn’t give the impression of being overweighted with intelligence. And she’s certainly not beautiful. Has her color run in the wash, or was she always of that gentle hue? But appearances must be deceitful; she’s a paragon of cleverness, if she fills the bill for you. I suppose she is a wonderful cook?” Barbara shook her head. “Neat?” “She doesn’t look so.” “Well, willing?” “I haven’t discovered yet.” “Honest, anyway?” “I don’t know anything about her morals.” Jack assumed a momentary air of distress. Then he drew a long sigh of relief as he remarked, “Well, I _know_ she’s experienced. You said no others need apply!” The hammock’s motion stopped, and Barbara lay ominously silent for a minute. Then the pent-up feeling of the past week burst forth in her reply:— “John Grafton, I don’t know one earthly thing about that girl! She’s done farm-work all her life. She doesn’t know how to cook. She never heard of rice or celery. She never has seen a refrigerator! She’s afraid of the gas-stove. She wouldn’t know what I meant if I asked her about references. She can’t do anything but milk. She isn’t one single thing that I advertised for, or hoped for, or wanted! But maybe she can learn. And I’m so tired, and hot, and discouraged, and I’ve spoiled so many things!” And for once in his life Jack understood, and forbore. * * * * * “I’ve seen a good many kinds of imbecility in my life,” said Jack, a week later. “But never one to equal hers. She is willing, she is active, She is sober, she is kind, But she _never_ looks attractive, And she _hasn’t_ any mind. She was born stupid, achieved stupidness, and had stupidity thrust upon her,—all three. I found her pouring water on the gas-stove to put out the burner, the other day. She’ll have us all gas-fixiated, if we don’t watch out.” “That was several days ago,” laughed Barbara. “She’s developed a stage beyond that, now. In fact, she’s devoted to the gas-stove. I can hardly prevail upon her to turn it off at all. She announced to me yesterday that it was the handiest thing she ever saw,—that you ‘only had to light it once a day, and fire all the time.’ Think what our gas-bill is likely to be under her tender ministrations!”