ecil belonged to that class of boy that hates
to admit inferiority to others. So he suffered in silence, creaked
miserably at his uprising and down-sitting, and was happily unaware
that everyone in Billabong knew perfectly well what was the matter with
him.

Cecil and his mother were very good friends in the cool, polite way
that was distinctive of them. They "fitted" together admirably, and as
a general rule held the same views, the one on which they were most in
accord being the belief in Cecil's own superior talents and
characteristics. He wrote to her just as he would have talked, certain
of her absolute agreement. When his letter was finished he felt much
relieved at having, as Jim said, "got it off his chest." Not that Cecil
would ever have said anything so inelegant.

Sarah crossed the hall at the moment, carrying a tray of silver to be
cleaned, and he called to her--

"Where is Norah?"

"Miss Norah's in the kitchen," said the girl shortly. The Billabong
maids were no less independent than modern maids generally are, but
they had their views about the city gentleman's manner to the daughter
of the house. "On'y a bit of a kid himself," Mary had said to Sarah,
indignantly, "but any one'd think he owned the earth, an' Miss Norah
was a bit of it." So they despised Cecil exceedingly, and refrained
from shaking up his mattress when they made his bed.

"Er--you may tell her I want to speak to her."

"Can't, I'm afraid," Sarah said. "Miss Norah's very busy, 'elpin' Mrs.
Brown. She don't care to be disturbed."

"Can't she spare me a moment?"

"Wouldn't ask her to." Sarah lifted her tray--and her nose--and marched
out. Cecil looked black.

"Gad! I wish the mater had to deal with those girls!" he said
viciously--Mrs. Geoffrey Linton was of the employers who "change their
maids" with every new moon. "She'd make them sit up, I'll wager.
Abominable impertinence!" He strolled to the door, and looked out
across the garden discontentedly. "What on earth is there for a man to
do? Well, I'll hunt up the important cousin."

At the moment, Norah was quite of importance. Mrs. Brown had succumbed
to a headache earlier in the day. Norah had found her, white-faced and
miserable, bending over a preserving pan full of jam, waiting for the
mystical moment when it should "jell." Ordered to rest, poor Brownie
had stoutly refused--was there not more baking to be done, impossible to
put off, to say nothing of the jam? A brisk engag