more to comfort himself than because he had any decided convictions to express—“still, a baby in the house will make a difference, and Ellen and Jane will behave better now that Bessie’s added responsibilities put them more upon their honor.”

For a time Thaddeus’s prophecy was correct.  Ellen and Jane did do better for nearly two months, and then—but why repeat the old story?  Then they lapsed, that is all, and became more tyrannical than ever.  Bessie was so busy with little Ted that the household affairs outside of the nursery came under their exclusive control.  Thaddeus stood it—I was going to say nobly, but I think it were better put ignobly—but he had a good excuse for so doing.

“A baby is an awful care to its mother,” he said; “a responsibility that takes up her whole time and attention.  I don’t think I’d better complicate matters by getting into a row with the servants.”

And so it went.  A year and another year passed.  The pretty home was beginning to look old.  The bloom of its youth had most improperly faded—for surely a home should never fade—but there was the boy, a growing delight to his father, so why complain?  Better this easy-going life than one of domestic contention.

Then on a sudden the boy fell ill.  The doctor came—shook his head gravely.

“You must take him to the sea-shore,” he said.  “It is his only chance.”

And to the sea-shore they went, leaving the house in charge of the treasures.

“I have confidence in you,” said Thaddeus to Jane and Ellen on the morning of the departure, “so I have decided to leave the house open in your care.  Mrs. Perkins wants you to keep it as you would if she were here.  Whatever you need to make yourselves comfortable, you may get.  Good-bye.”

“What a comfort it is,” said Bessie, when they had reached the sea-shore, and were indulging in their first bit of that woful luxury, homesickness—“what a comfort it is to feel that the girls are there to look after things!  An empty house is such a temptation to thieves.”

“Yes,” said Thaddeus.  “I hope they won’t entertain too much, though.”

“Ellen and Jane are too old for that sort of thing,” Bessie answered.

“How about Norah?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you.  There was nothing really for Norah to do, so I told her she could go off and stay with her mother on board-wages.”

“Good!” said Thaddeus, with a pleased smile.  “It isn’t a bad idea to save, particularly when you are staying at the sea-shore.”

In this contented frame of mind they lived for several weeks.  The boy grew stronger every day, and finally Thaddeus felt that the child was well enough to warrant his running back home for a night, “just to see how things were going.”  That the girls were faithful, of course, he did not doubt; the regularity with which letters addressed to him at home—and they were numerous—reached him convinced him of that; but the hamper containing the week’s wash, which Ellen and Jane were to send, and which had been expected on Thursday of the preceding week, had failed for once to arrive; the boy had worn one dress four days, Thaddeus’s collars were getting low, and altogether he was just a little uneasy about things.  So he availed himself of his opportunity and went home, taking with him a friend, in consideration of whom he telegraphed ahead to Ellen to prepare a good breakfast, not caring for dinner, since he and his companion expected to dine at the club and go to the theatre before going out to his home.

The result would have been fatal to Bessie’s peace of mind had she heard of it during her absence from home.  But Thaddeus never told her, until it was a matter of ancient history, that when he arrived at home, a little after midnight, he found the place deserted, and was compelled to usher his friend in through the parlor window; that from top to bottom the mansion gave evidence of not having seen a broom or a dust-brush since the departure of the family; that Jane had not been seen in the neighborhood for one full week—this came from those living on adjoining property; that Ellen had been absent since early that morning, and was not expected to return for three days; and, crowning act of infamy, that he, Thaddeus, and his friend were compelled to breakfast next morning upon a half of a custard pie, a bit mouldy, found by the lord of the manor on the fast-melting remains of a cake of ice in the refrigerator.  Whether it would have happened if Thaddeus had not been accompanied by a friend, whose laughter incited him to great deeds, or not I am not prepared to say, but something important did happen.  Thaddeus rose to the occasion, and committed an act, and committed it thoroughly.  The Thaddeus of old, the meek, long-suffering, too amiable Thaddeus, disappeared.  The famous smile was given no chance to play.  His wife was absent, and the smile was far away with her.  Thaddeus, with one fell blow, burst his fetters and became free.

That afternoon, when he had returned to the seaboard, Bessie asked him, “How was the house?”

“Beautiful,” said Thaddeus, quite truthfully; for it was.

“Did Ellen say anything about the hamper?”

“Not a word.”

“Did you speak to her about it?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, Teddy!  How could you forget it?”

To the lasting honor of Thaddeus be it said that he bore up under this unflinchingly.

“Did you have a good breakfast, Ted?” Bessie asked, returning to the subject later.

“Very,” said Thaddeus, thinking of the hearty meal he and his fellow-sufferer had eaten at the club after getting back to town.  “We had a tomato omelet, coffee, toast, rice cakes, tenderloin steak, and grits.”

“Dear me!” smiled Bessie; she was so glad her Teddy had been so well treated.  “All that?  Ellen must have laid herself out.”

“Yes,” said Thaddeus; “I think she did.”

All the following week Thaddeus seemed to have a load on his mind—a load which he resolutely refused to share with his wife—and on Friday he found it necessary to go up to town.

“I thought this was your vacation,” remonstrated Bessie.

“Well, so it is,” said Thaddeus.  “But—but I’ve got one or two matters to attend to—matters of very great importance—so that I think I’ll have to go.”

“If you must, you must,” said Bessie.  “But I think it’s horrid of your partner to make you go back to town this hot weather.”

“Don’t be cross with my partner,” said Thaddeus; “especially my partner in this matter.”

“Have you different partners for different matters?” queried Bessie.

“Never mind about that, my dear; you’ll know all about it in time, so don’t worry.”

“All right, Teddy.  But I don’t like to have you running away from me when I’m at a hotel.  I’d rather be home, anyhow.  Can’t I go with you?  Little Ted is well enough now to go home.”

“Not this time; but you can go up next Wednesday if you wish,” returned Thaddeus, with a slight show of embarrassment.

And so it was settled, and Thaddeus went to town.  On Wednesday they all left the sea-shore to return to Phillipseburg.

“Oh, how lovely it looks!” ejaculated Bessie, as she entered the house, Norah having opened the door.  “But—er—where’s Jane, Norah?”

“Cookin’ the dinner, mim.”

“Why, Jane can’t cook.”

“If you please, mim, this is a new Jane.”

Bessie’s parasol fell to the floor.  “A wha-a-at?” she cried.

“A new Jane.  Misther Perkins has dispinsed with old Jane and Ellen, mim.”

Bessie rushed up-stairs to her room and cried.  The shock was too sudden.  She longed for Thaddeus, who had remained at the station collecting the bath-tubs and other luxuries of the baby from the luggage-van, to come.  What did it all mean?  Jane