Barbara looked angrily at the little boy, but his face was so innocent that her heart softened. She did not answer him, but began to explain matters to her father, who looked grave and rather preoccupied. Her story did not seem to impress him, for some reason, and Barbara found herself faltering over her account, and justifying herself in every other sentence. “Yes—yes,” said the Doctor, abstractedly, as she finished. “Of course you ought not to have to put up tomatoes if you don’t want to. Mrs. Harris was a very capable woman, though, and you are in for another siege, I’m afraid. It’s too bad. You will have to try to get some one else.” And, looking at his watch, he left the table. Gassy had been quiet during the whole meal, her elfish locks, bright eyes, and silence making her more conspicuous than if she had shouted. After dinner, she soberly enveloped herself in her large apron, and took her place at Barbara’s side, ready to help her sister. “I hate dishes,” she remarked conversationally, as she took the first plate in hand. “They are never over, and they never change. I must have wiped this Robinson Crusoe plate of the Kid’s at least a million times since mama went—There! Oh my, Barbara, I’ve broken it!” “Cecilia! Why don’t you hold on to the things you take in your hands?” cried Barbara. “I never saw such a child! You break everything you touch!” The child’s face flushed. She stood quietly a moment, and wiped two plates with deftness and precision. The next moment, Barbara at the sink suddenly felt as if a whirlwind had struck the room. A dishcloth went whizzing upwards until it clung to the clock on the shelf, a wriggling figure freed itself from a blue-checked apron, which was flung tumultuously on the floor, and an agitated, retreating voice exclaimed, “I’ll never—_never_—NEVER wipe for you again! There!” Barbara finished the work alone, and went to the porch, with a struggle going on in her mind. She felt that she was failing, in spite of her best efforts,—failing with the children, failing to do the “simple” household tasks, and to manage the household machinery that had never been so startlingly in evidence before. What was the cause of it all? “Of course I am not very experienced,” Barbara said to herself, “but still, with a moderately good servant, I am sure I could manage very well. The trouble has been with the frightful maids we have had. And the children are demoralized by the frequent changes, and are hard to control. Oh, for one good cook, so that I could show myself to be the capable girl that a college girl ought to be!”