house-cleanin's most done."

Louise had been talking also, but her sister seemed to have a stronger
pair of lungs, for her voice drowned that of the Countess, who retreated
to "pack up."

The minutes dragged by, to the tune of several chapters of family
history as voluminously interpreted by Mrs. Denson. Miss Whitmore
had always boasted the best-behaved of nerves, but this day she
developed a genuine case of "fidgets." Once she saw Chip's face
turned inquiringly toward the window, and telegraphed her state of
mind--while Mrs. Denson's back was turned--so eloquently that Chip
was swept at once into sympathetic good-fellowship. He arranged
the cushion on the front seat significantly, and was rewarded by
an emphatic, though furtive, nod and smile. Whereupon he leaned
comfortably back, rolled a cigarette and smoked contentedly, at
peace with himself and the world--though he did not in the least
know why.

"An' as I told Louise, folks has got t' put up with things an' not be
huntin' trouble with a club all the time, if they expect t' git any
comfort out uh this life. We ain't had the best uh luck, seems t' me,
but we always git along somehow, an' we ain't had no sickness except
when--"

A confused uproar arose in the room above them, followed, immediately
by a humpety bump and a crash as a small, pink object burst open a door
and rolled precipitately into their midst. It proved to be one of the
little Densons, who kicked feebly with both feet and then lay still.