o be a good cook, and
that the daily tasks lack inspiration. The hardest part of housework
must be done at a time when many other people are free for rest and
enjoyment, and it carries with it a social bar sinister when it is
done for money. The woman who does it for her board and clothes, in
her own kitchen, does not necessarily lose caste, but doing it for a
higher wage, in another's kitchen, makes one almost an outcast.
Strange and unreasonable, but true.

It was at my own suggestion that she began to leave the dishes piled
up in the sink until morning. When the room is otherwise immaculate,
a tray of neatly piled plates, even if unwashed, does not disturb my
aesthetic sense.

Ordinarily, she is free for the evening at half-past seven or a
quarter of eight--always by eight. Her evenings are hers, not
mine,--unless I pay her extra, as I always do. A dollar or so counts
for nothing in the expense of an entertainment, and she both earns and
deserves the extra wage.

If I am to entertain twenty or thirty people--the house will hold no
more, and I cannot ask more than ten to dinner--I consult with her,
decide upon the menu, tell her that she can have all the help she
needs, and go my ways in peace. I can order the flowers, decorate the
table, put on my best gown, and receive my guests, unwearied, with an
easy mind.

When I am not expecting guests, I can leave the house immediately
after breakfast, without a word about dinner, and return to the right
sort of a meal at seven o'clock, bringing a guest or two with me, if I
telephone first.

I can work for six weeks or two months in a seclusion as perfect as I
could have in the Sahara Desert, and my household, meanwhile, will
move as if on greased skids. I can go away for two months and hear
nothing from her, and yet know that everything is all right at home. I
think no more about it, so far as responsibility is concerned, when I
am travelling, than as if I had no home at all. When we leave the
apartment alone in the evening, we turn on the most of the lights,
being assured by the police that burglars will never molest a
brilliantly illuminated house.

The morose countenance of my ugly maid has subtly changed. It
radiates, in its own way, beauty and good cheer. Her harsh voice is
gentle, her manner is kind, her tastes are becoming refined, her ways
are those of a lady.

My friends and neighbours continually allude to the transformation as
"a miracle." The janitor re