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“We won’t keep you from your dishes, Belle,” said Molly.

“Oh, I’m all through,” said Belle, cheerfully. “There!” For the ring was beginning to strike the glass with delicate, even strokes–thirty.

“Now do it again,” cried Belle, delightedly, “and it’ll tell your married life!”

Again the ring struck the glass–eight.

“Well, that’s very marvellous,” said Molly, in genuine surprise; but when Belle had gone back to her pantry, Mrs. Tressady rose, with a little sigh, and followed her.

“Call her down?” asked Jerry, an hour later.

“Well, no,” the lady admitted, smiling. “No! She was putting away Timmy’s bibs, and she told me that he had seemed a little upset to-night, she thought; so she gave him just barley gruel and the white of an egg for supper, and some rhubarb water before he went to bed. And what could I say? But I will, though!”

During the following week Mrs. Tressady told Belle she must not rush into a room shouting news–she must enter quietly and wait for an opportunity to speak; Mrs. Tressady asked her to leave the house by the side porch and quietly when going out in the evening to drive with her young man; Mrs. Tressady asked her not to deliver the mail with the announcement: “Three from New York, an ad from Emville, and one with a five-cent stamp on it;” she asked her not to shout out from the drive, “White skirt show?” She said Belle must not ask, “What’s he doing?” when discovering Mr. Tressady deep in a chess problem; Belle must not drop into a chair when bringing Timmy out to the porch after his afternoon outing; she must not be heard exclaiming, “Yankee Doodle!” and “What do you know about that!” when her broom dislodged a spider or her hair caught on the rose-bushes.

To all of these requests Belle answered, “Sure!” with great penitence and amiability.

“Sure, Mis’ Tress’dy–Say, listen! I can match that insertion I spilled ink on–in Emville. Isn’t that the limit? I can fix it so it’ll never show in the world!”

“I wouldn’t stand that girl for–one–minute,” said Mrs. Porter to her husband; but this was some weeks later when the Porters were in a comfortable Pullman, rushing toward New York.

“I think Molly’s afraid of flying in the face of Providence and discharging her,” said Peter Porter–“but praying every day that she’ll go.”

This was almost the truth. Belle’s loyalty, affection, good nature, and willingness were beyond price, but Belle’s noisiness, her slang, and her utter lack of training were a sore trial. When November came, with rains that kept the little household at Rising Water prisoners indoors, Mrs. Tressady began to think she could not stand Belle much longer.

“My goodness!” Belle would say loudly when sent for to bring a filled lamp. “Is that other lamp burned out already? Say, listen! I’ll give you the hall lamp while I fill it.” “You oughtn’t to touch pie just after one of your headaches!” she would remind her employer in a respectful aside at dinner. And sometimes when Molly and her husband were busy in the study a constant stream of conversation would reach them from the nursery where Belle was dressing Timothy:

“Now where’s the boy that’s going to let Belle wash his face? Oh, my, what a good boy! Now, just a minny–minny–minny–that’s all. Now give Belle a sweet, clean kiss–yes, but give Belle a sweet, clean kiss–give Belle a kiss–oh, Timmy, do you want Belle to cry? Well, then, give her a kiss–give Belle a sweet kiss–“

When Molly was bathing the boy Belle would come and take a comfortable chair near by, ready to spring for powder or pins, but otherwise studying her fingernails or watching the bath with genial interest. Molly found herself actually lacking in the strength of mind to exact that Belle stand silently near on these occasions, and so listened to a great many of Belle’s confidences. Belle at home; Belle in the high school; Belle trying a position in Robbins’s candy store and not liking it because she was not used to freshness–all these Belles became familiar to Molly. Grewsome sicknesses, famous local crimes, gossip, weddings–Belle touched upon them all; and Molly was ashamed to find it all interesting, it spite of herself. One day Belle told Molly of Joe Rogers, and Joe figured daily in the narratives thereafter–Joe, who drove a carriage, a motor, or a hay wagon, as the occasion required, for his uncle who owned a livery stable, but whose ambition was to buy out old Scanlon, the local undertaker, and to marry Belle.