"Why--why--no, ma'am. Never in the houses where I've served--"

"Now that'll do, William. Don't begin that. That's what James always
says when he specially wants to be disagreeable. If you haven't ever
took a neighbor a plate o' cookies or some gingerbread, right hot out
of the oven, you've missed a lot. So do as I say!"

"But--ma'am--I'm sure they have all the cakes they need. Mr. Cairns
is a--very--very rich man, and they have a cook, a French cook. Why,
he has an income of more than a million dollars a year, and--and--"

Drusilla looked at him over her glasses.

"Land o' Goshen, has he? That's a heap o' money; but I'm sure that
if he has a French cook like mine, he'll be mighty glad to have an
old-fashioned fried cake; so take that plate to him too, and I'll fix
another for Mis' Freeman. He ain't never sence he was a boy set his
teeth in better fried cakes. Perhaps the cookies won't be so much to
his taste; but you tell 'em they're nice fer the children to slip in
their apron pockets to eat at recess."

William executed his errand, although with a feeling that the
dignity of the place was not being upheld. There was a luncheon party
at the Cairns mansion, and when the butler brought in the plate of
cookies and the doughnuts and delivered the message, trying his best
not to smile, Mrs. Cairns looked at them in dismay.

"What did you say, John?"