Mother Barbara. "There are your letters, to begin with. Is it true that
you are, all three of you, going to the theater to-night?"

She never used any of the ordinary terms of respect. If she had been
their mother, instead of their housekeeper, she could not have spoken
more familiarly to the two old gentlemen who employed her.

"Well," she went on, "my daughter is in trouble about her baby, and wants
my advice. Teething, and convulsions, and that sort of thing. As you are
all going out for the evening, you don't want me, after I have put your
bedrooms tidy. I can go to my daughter for an hour or two, I suppose--and
Joseph (who isn't of much use, heaven knows) can take care of the house.

Mr. Keller, refreshing his memory of the opera of the night (Gluck's
"Armida") by consulting the book, nodded, and went on with his reading.
Mr. Engelman said, "Certainly, my good soul; give my best wishes to your
daughter for the baby's health." Mother Barbara grunted, and hobbled out
of the room.

I looked at the letters. Two were for me--from my aunt and Fritz. One was
for Mr. Keller--addressed also in the handwriting of my aunt. When I
handed it to him across the table, he dropped "Armida" the moment he
looked at the envelope. It was the answer to his remonstrance on the
subject of the employment of women.

For Minna's sake, I opened Fritz's letter first. It contained the
long-expected lines to his sweetheart. I went out at once, and, enclosing
the letter in an envelope, sent Joseph away with it to the widow's
lodgings before Mother Barbara's departure made it necessary for him to
remain in the house.