"I was so provoked--why, Jane, what is the matter? You are
frightened or nervous or something. Have you seen a ghost anywhere?"
broke off Dozia.

"Oh no, but I am so tired," Jane edged away from the suspector.
"After all I do believe Judy is sensible, see her slumber."

"Jane Allen, you are a fraud," pronounced the girl in the velveteen
robe. "You are smothering some mystery and I must have stepped on
the spring," guessed the inquisitive caller. "Was it the tack hammer
or the spindle chair or the fat girl? Not she, you have had no
chance to do uplift work yet. Land knows that farmer will need your
greatest skill, but dear, don't waste it on her. She's incurable."

"Bad as all that?" asked Jane colorlessly. "But what happened? You
did not try to hit her with the hammer I hope?"

"I didn't try to hit her, I did hit her. It fell accidentally on her
fat head and she tossed it through the mirror. Now what can a girl
do in a case like that?"

The haunted look, so foreign to the face of Jane, shaped itself
again.

"Is she--did you hurt her?"

"I hope so," dared Dozia. "It would be a charity to send her home.
Her name is Shirley Duncan and she's from some country town. But
Jane, if she gets really horrid, I mean more horrid than she is now,
I want you to stand by me. That's what I came for."