She turned on the unsuspecting Duchess. “Mrs. Harris,” she said determinedly, “you ordered those tomatoes yesterday, when I had decided that it was best not to have them until later, because of the ironing. Now you want to put them up when it is inconvenient to me to do so, because you have them on your hands, and they may spoil. I cannot help you this afternoon. If you cannot attend to them alone, let them go until to-morrow, when I shall be at leisure. We shall simply have to throw away those tomatoes which are not good.” Auburn should have seen the expression of the Duchess. Good-humor gave way to surprise, which was succeeded by disapproval, in turn to be routed by annoyance. It was not until the last sentence that a Jove-like rage sat upon her reddening countenance. “You _won’t_ do them tomatoes?” she inquired in a queer voice. “No,” said Barbara. “You’ll let ’em spoil?” incredulously. “Yes, if necessary.” Mrs. Harris stopped ironing. She reached out a strong brown hand, and turned out the gas under the irons. She unrolled the sleeves of her brown calico dress. Then she turned slowly toward her resolute mistress. “Barbara Grafton,” she said with an awful calmness of manner, “you’re an ungrateful, ’ard-’eaded girl, an’ I’m sorry for your family. I come ’ere to ’elp you hout in your trouble,—I ain’t no common ’elp,—an’ you flies in my face whenever you can, an’ goes agin me every chanct you get. What does I do about that? Nothin’. You try to make me spend my time in frills, an’ fussin’ over things as the finest families in Hengland never ’as. What does I do? Nothin’. I goes on my way an’ swallers insults from a chit of a girl. I seen lots o’ things sence I come which ’urt my sensitive disposition, but I passes ’em by. Now it comes to tomatoes, an’ I guess we’ll part. You’re an ungrateful girl, an’ I washes my hands of you.” Mrs. Harris crossed over to the sink, and solemnly washed and wiped her hands. Then she put on her faded black bonnet, which always hung by its rusty strings from a hook behind the door. She stood a minute, on the threshold, and looked at Barbara in Olympic sorrow. “Onct more,” she said almost entreatingly, “will you ’elp with them tomatoes?” “No,” said Barbara. The screen-door banged loudly. Barbara was alone again. CHAPTER VII “THE FALLING OUT OF FAITHFUL FRIENDS” THE Kid stamped loudly up the piazza steps, and trotted through the house to find Barbara. His infant intellect, assisted by the pangs of his stomach, assured him that it was past the dinner-hour. And yet no loud-tongued bell, energetically operated upon by the Duchess, had summoned him from his play in the dusty street. On such a dire occasion the Kid always reported to headquarters; and passing through the empty dining-room, he came upon Barbara alone in the kitchen, desperately struggling with a can of salmon. The Kid stopped on the threshold and stared.