"Then he is just what I said he was," snapped Bessie--"a mean thing.
The idea--twelve dollars a month for all that! Why, if she could
prove she was all that you say she is, she could make ten times that
amount by exhibiting herself. She is a curiosity. But if I were
Mrs. Bradley I wouldn't have her in the house. So many virtues
piled one on the other are sure to make an unsafe structure, and I
believe some poor, miserable little vice will crop out somewhere and
upset the whole thing."

"You are jealous," said Thaddeus; and then he went out.

The next day, meeting his friend Bradley on the street, Thaddeus
greeted him with a smile, and said, "Mrs. Perkins thinks you ought
to take up literature."

"Why so?" asked Bradley.

"She thinks De Foe and Scott and Dumas and Stevenson would be thrown
into the depths of oblivion if you were to write up that jewel of
yours," said Thaddeus. "She thinks your Mary is one of the finest,
most imaginative creations of modern days."

"She doubts her existence, eh?" smiled Bradley.

"Well, she thinks she's more likely to be a myth than a Smith," said
Thaddeus. "She told me to ask you if Mary has a twin-sister, and to
say that if you hear of her having any relatives at all--and no
domestic ever lived who hadn't--to send her their addresses. She'd
like to employ a few."