In the middle of the floor sat the Idgit, a whity-yellow island in a sea of raspberry juice and broken glass. From the oven of the gas-stove came a volume of flame and smoke. The stove-lids lay on the floor, and the kitchen was full of flying flecks of soot. Barbara rushed to the stove, and turned off the burners, one by one. Then she lifted the huddled heap from the floor. “What is the matter, Addie?” she asked. The ouija board in the Idgit’s brain was unusually stubborn and unmanageable. It was fully three minutes before anything intelligible came from her lips. Then the inarticulate sounds resolved themselves into the words, “Oh, gol, mam!” “What happened?” “I dunno, mam.” “What did you do to the stove?” “I dunno, mam.” “Did you light it? How did the burners come to be turned on?” “I was cleaning the stove, mam. I must ’a’ turned ’em on when I washed the knobs.” “Then did you light it?” “No, mam. I left it to carry the fruit down cellar; an’ I lit a match to see by.” “Oh!” said Barbara. For the first and last time in her career the Idgit uttered a voluntary sentence. “I’m going to quit to-night. Gol! that gas-stove!” CHAPTER VI THE DUCHESS IT was eleven o’clock in the morning, and Barbara threw herself into the hammock on the porch, every nerve in her body tingling with fatigue. In a chair near by sat the Kid, driving imaginary horses along Main Street, and politely removing his hat to every one he met on the way. He inquired whether Barbara desired to ride on the front seat with him, but she was so tired that she scarcely answered the little boy, and wearily closed her eyes to avoid seeing David’s book and Jack’s racket lying on the piazza floor. She felt that to rise from the hammock and pick up that racket was a task requiring the strength and energy of a Titan. She was gradually succumbing to the influence of the swaying hammock, and the tension of her nerves was relaxing, so that the sudden stampede of the horses on the porch was dimly associated in her mind with thunder, when she felt a sudden touch on her shoulder, and opened her eyes to see the Kid standing near. “There’s a lady at the gate, Barb’ra,” he said. Barbara peered over the edge of the hammock. Coming up the path, with a stately stride and a majestic swing that allowed her skirts to sweep first one edge of the path and then the other, advanced a Being whose presence immediately inspired Barbara with a sense of approaching royalty. It was not that the visitor was fashionably attired, for her faded black garments and dejected-looking bonnet, even in their palmiest days, could not have been called stylish. Yet, resting in serenity upon the thin, tall form of their wearer, they seemed calmly self-satisfied and distinguished. As the visitor approached, she shed kindly critical and affable glances about her, and rewarded Barbara’s inquiring gaze with a cheerful smile.