"Got any junk?" cried Maria at Miss Baker's door. The little old lady
was sitting close to the wall in her rocking-chair; her hands resting
idly in her lap.

"Now, Maria," she said plaintively, "you are always after junk; you know
I never have anything laying 'round like that."

It was true. The retired dressmaker's tiny room was a marvel of
neatness, from the little red table, with its three Gorham spoons laid
in exact parallels, to the decorous geraniums and mignonettes growing
in the starch box at the window, underneath the fish globe with its
one venerable gold fish. That day Miss Baker had been doing a bit of
washing; two pocket handkerchiefs, still moist, adhered to the window
panes, drying in the sun.

"Oh, I guess you got something you don't want," Maria went on, peering
into the corners of the room. "Look-a-here what Mister Grannis gi'
me," and she held out the yellow pitcher. Instantly Miss Baker was in a
quiver of confusion. Every word spoken aloud could be perfectly heard in
the next room. What a stupid drab was this Maria! Could anything be more
trying than this position?

"Ain't that right, Mister Grannis?" called Maria; "didn't you gi' me
this pitcher?" Old Grannis affected not to hear; perspiration stood on
his forehead; his timidity overcame him as if he were a ten-year-old
schoolboy. He half rose from his chair, his fingers dancing nervously
upon his chin.

Maria opened Miss Baker's closet unconcernedly. "What's the matter with