did not add to her composure.

"Yes, ma'am; I will, ma'am," she stammered, righting the pitcher,
and turning hastily. "I was only keepin' on with my work 'cause
you specially told me this mornin' ter hurry with my dishes, ye
know."

Her mistress frowned.

"That will do, Nancy. I did not ask for explanations. I asked for
your attention."

"Yes, ma'am." Nancy stifled a sigh. She was wondering if ever in
any way she could please this woman. Nancy had never "worked out"
before; but a sick mother suddenly widowed and left with three
younger children besides Nancy herself, had forced the girl into
doing something toward their support, and she had been so pleased
when she found a place in the kitchen of the great house on the
hill--Nancy had come from "The Corners," six miles away, and she
knew Miss Polly Harrington only as the mistress of the old
Harrington homestead, and one of the wealthiest residents of the
town. That was two months before. She knew Miss Polly now as a
stern, severe-faced woman who frowned if a knife clattered to the
floor, or if a door banged--but who never thought to smile even
when knives and doors were still.

"When you've finished your morning work, Nancy," Miss Polly was
saying now, "you may clear the little room at the head of the
stairs in the attic, and make up the cot bed. Sweep the room and
clean it, of course, after you clear out the trunks and boxes."