"Come into the library; it's the only room in the whole house that is
comfortably warm. You've no idea what a task it is to heat a place like
this in really cold weather. No sooner do I find a man who can run my
furnace than he goes off and leaves me."

"I can sympathize with you," I said, "we often have trouble at our house
with the man who builds the fires."

He looked around at me quizzically.

"He lies too long in bed in the morning," I said.

By this time we had arrived at the library, where a bright fire was
burning in the grate. It was a fine big room, with dark oak furnishings
and books in cases along one wall, but this morning it had a dishevelled
and untidy look. On a little table at one side of the fireplace were the
remains of a breakfast; at the other a number of wraps were thrown
carelessly upon a chair. As I came in Mrs. Starkweather rose from her
place, drawing a silk scarf around her shoulders. She is a robust,
rather handsome woman, with many rings on her fingers, and a pair of
glasses hanging to a little gold hook on her ample bosom; but this
morning she, too, looked worried and old.

"Oh, yes," she said with a rueful laugh, "we're beginning a merry
Christmas, as you see. Think of Christmas with no cook in the house!"

I felt as if I had discovered a gold mine. Poor starving millionaires!

But Mrs. Starkweather had not told the whole of her sorrowful story.