Bobbie, General Manager. Olive Higgins Prouty

the desk in her graceful easy way, with a beautiful French hand-embroidered lingerie waist on, that I'd be glad to own for very best. There were gold beads about her neck, and her hair, even in the morning, was soft and fluffy and wavy. She had her feet crossed and I took in the silk stockings and the low dull-leather pumps.

      I had a sudden desire to tear down all her beautiful appearance of ease and grace.

      "We don't have lunch at noon," I said bluntly. "We have dinner, just dinner. We've always had dinner."

      "Yes, I know," she began in her persistently pleasant way; "people do very often, in New England."

      I couldn't bear her unruffled composure.

      "Oh," I said, bound to shock her, "it isn't because we're New England. It's because we're plain, plain people. The rich families in New England as well as anywhere, have dinner at night. But we," I said, glorying in every word, "are not one of the rich families. We have doughnuts for breakfast, baked beans and brown bread Saturday nights, and Saturday noons a boiled dinner. We love pie. We all just love it. Father came from a farm in Vermont. He didn't have any money at all when he started in. You see we're common people. And so's Tom. Tom comes from just a common, common, common family," I said, loving to repeat the word.

      She was sitting with her arm thrown carelessly over the back of the chair, and her gaze way out of the west window. When I stopped to see what effect my words had had she just laughed—a quiet pleased laugh—and mixed up with it I heard her say, "Why, Chenery is the most uncommon man I ever met." And she blushed like eighteen.

      I went right on.

      "We don't call him Chenery, either," I said. "We cut off all such fringes. He's plain Tom to us. I know how the plain way we live must impress you. I know you've been used to French maids, and push-a-button for everything you want. I'm sorry for the shock you must have got coming here. But you might as well wake up to the truth. You see what a mess the house is in, and how Nellie won't call us Mister and Miss, and how if she is on the third floor and she wants me she just yells. And," I said, pointing out of the window, "there goes Delia now. And there isn't a sign of a cook left in the house."

      Elise sat up straight.

      "Is she leaving without notice?" she exclaimed.

      "Naturally," I laughed.

      "How dreadfully unkind of her!"

      "That's what I think, but Delia doesn't care if I do."

      "Haven't you some one to help you out? What will you do?" Elise was really excited.

      "Do?" I replied grimly. "Oh, I'll duff in and cook myself, I suppose."

      Elise put down her pen.

      "I can make delicious desserts," she said. "Can't you telephone to the family not to come home this noon? We can be ready for them by to-night. I know how to make the best cake you ever tasted in your life."

      That's the way it came about. I took her out into the kitchen and didn't try to cover up a thing. She could see everything exactly as it was—smoked kitchen ceiling, uneven kitchen floor, paintless pantry shelves. She could go to the bottom of the flour barrel if she wanted to; and she did. Covered with an old apron and her sleeves rolled up, she was first in the kitchen pantry looking into every cupboard, drawer or bucket for powdered sugar; next in the fruit-closet feeling all the paper bags, in search of a lemon; then calling to me in her musical voice to come here and taste some dough to see if it needed anything else; in the butler's pantry choosing just the plate she wanted for her cookies; and actually underneath the sink, pulling out a greasy spider for panouchie, which she was going to make out of some lumpy brown sugar she discovered in a wooden bucket. I took grim pleasure in having her see the worst there was. I wondered if she could stand the fact that we didn't own an ice-cream freezer, when she suggested ice-cream for dessert, nor possess a drop of olive oil for her mayonnaise. I didn't care. I liked telling her the things we didn't have. When I heard her burst into laughter in the butler's pantry, and pushing open the swinging-door, saw her gazing at my set of rules tacked up over the sink for Nellie, I made no explanation whatsoever. I was delighted to have her read them. At sight of me she went off into regular peals.

      Finally she gasped, with her finger on Rule 6, "She put—the ice—in a hunk, in the big pitcher in the wash-bowl!" and the tears ran down her cheeks.

      I laughed a little then in spite of myself.

      "Nellie's an old fool," I said and went back to my work.

      It happened that Father and Alec had gone to Boston for the day on business, and the last minute Tom had joined them, so the men wouldn't be home until night anyhow. I called up the twins, just before their fifth-hour period (I had cut school myself) and told them to get a bite to eat at the high school lunch-counter. "I'll pay for it," I assured them, for I knew the twins would jump at the chance of a free spread, and as they had manual-training that afternoon, Elise and I were safe from any interruption from the male section.

      We had supper at half-past six as usual. It was very queer about that meal. The awful strain we had all felt the same day at breakfast had suddenly disappeared. Elise had suggested that we shouldn't tell any one of Delia's departure, and on the outside everything was just as it was in the morning, even to Nellie's ridiculous cap.

      "These biscuits are good, Lucy," Father said suddenly, as he reached for the plate. Father usually speaks of the food, but he hadn't done so once since Elise had come.

      "There's more in the kitchen," announced Nellie blandly.

      "There's a whole panful," added Elise. "I'm awfully glad you like them!" she exclaimed and then stopped short.

      "There," I said, "I knew you'd let the cat out. Elise made them!" I announced.

      "Delia's left—" Elise hurried to say.

      "And we—" I put in.

      "We got supper!" she finished proudly.

      "You and Bobbie?" exclaimed Alec.

      "Bobbie and you?" gasped Tom.

      "Of course!" she said. "Bobbie scallopped the oysters."

      "Give me some more," said Malcolm.

      "Fling over the last biscuit," sang out Oliver. And in a flash Elise picked up the little brown ball and tossed it across the fern-dish straight as an arrow.

      "Good shot!" said Oliver, catching it in both hands.

      "Oh," piped up Ruthie, "make Malcolm stop. He took a cookie and it isn't time for them."

      Father just chuckled, and said, "Pretty good! pretty good!" And I tell you it was simply glorious to be natural again!

      "Don't eat too much," said Elise, "for dessert's coming and it's awfully good."

      "And chocolate layer-cake with it!" said I.

      "Oh, bully!" shouted Malcolm and Oliver together.

      "Say," asked Alec, "isn't this a good deal better than last night when Nellie's cap fell into your butter?"

      We all burst into sudden laughter and Nellie, who was filling the glasses, had to set down the pitcher. She was shaking with mirth. We laughed until it hurt; we simply roared; and suddenly Elise gasped, when she was able to get her breath:

      "Wasn't it funny? I was so frightened by you all then, I didn't know what to say about that old cap. But now—O dear!" and suddenly she turned to Ruth who sat next to her, put her arms around her and kissed her. "Oh, Ruthie," she exclaimed, "isn't it nice to know them all!" And I couldn't tell whether the tears in her eyes were from laughing or crying.

      We stayed up late that night.

      "Run and get my slippers," said Father to Ruth after supper; and all the evening he lay back in his chair and watched us children while we sang college songs to Elise's ripping accompaniment; and poked fun at the twins because they'd just bought their first derbies. It was eleven-thirty when we went up to bed.

      "Come here a minute,