“I heard you quarreling about the potatoes,” she said. “They say you’re completely changed now, an’ that you haven’t the say about anything any more, since that Englishwoman came; but I didn’t believe it until I heard you give up about havin’ the potatoes mashed.” They had forgotten the presence of David, who had been reading in a corner of the porch all morning. “You always have your say about everything, don’t you?” he inquired dreamily. “I wonder how you know so many things people say. Barbara never does.” “I must go,” said Miss Bates, rising abruptly. “Barbara, since things _are_ all took off your hands, why don’t you spend some time teaching them children manners?” Barbara ate her appetizing dinner in almost complete silence. The comfort of sitting down to a well-set table and of staying there throughout the meal, without rising half a hundred times for forgotten articles, had no power to soothe her injured feelings. So all Auburn was talking about her, and calling her incompetent, and imposed upon by a woman who was only a kitchen “help”! It was intolerable, and she would endure it no longer. She would take the initiative, and once for all convince Mrs. Harris of the necessity of subordination. After dinner, Barbara wiped the dishes, a task which Mrs. Harris exacted on ironing-day. Her resentful silence was lost entirely on the Duchess, whose good-humor was almost startlingly displayed in conversation. “I’ve ben hironin’ like a fiend to-day,” she said in a self-satisfied tone, “an’ there’ll be plenty o’ time this afternoon to finish, an’ to put up them tomatoes as ’as ben waiting to be put up. You’ll ’ave to ’elp, Barbara, if we’re to get them done in time.” “That will be impossible, I’m afraid,” said Barbara, endeavoring to keep her voice calm. “Susan Hunt is coming over this afternoon for a lesson.” “Oh, well, put ’er off,” replied the Duchess. Barbara moved uneasily. “No,” she answered steadily. “I don’t wish to put her off. The tomatoes can be put up to-morrow.” “Them tomatoes is just right now, an’ it’s so warm, lots O’ them will spoil afore mornin’,” the Duchess answered, the smile dying out of her face. “Go to the telephone, Barbara, an’ tell that ’Unt girl she can’t come. She’s ben runnin’ ’ere enough lately, an’ I can’t get through them tomatoes alone.” For a moment Barbara wavered. Insufferable as she felt this dictation to be, she thought of the comfort and order of the house, and her heart sank at the thought of losing them. Then Miss Bates’s words suddenly came back to her: “You haven’t the say about anything any more; they say you’re completely changed.”