per appreciation of art. He'll pay
thousands of pounds for a child in rags or a badly dressed Madonna. Such
a waste of money, it appears to me."

"But you would pay thousands for a diamond to hang upon your neck,"
argued my father's voice.

"It would enhance the beauty of my neck," replied the musical voice.

"An even more absolute waste of money," was my father's answer, spoken
low. And I heard again the musical, soft laugh.

"Who is she?" I asked Barbara.

"The second Mrs. Teidelmann," whispered Barbara. "She is quite a swell.
Married him for his money--I don't like her myself, but she's very
beautiful."

"As beautiful as you?" I asked incredulously. We were sitting on the
stairs, sharing a jelly.

"Oh, me!" answered Barbara. "I'm only a child. Nobody takes any notice
of me--except other kids, like you." For some reason she appeared out of
conceit with herself, which was not her usual state of mind.

"But everybody thinks you beautiful," I maintained.

"Who?" she asked quickly.

"Dr. Hal," I answered.

We were with our backs to the light, so that I could not see her face.

"What did he say?" she asked, and her voice had more of contentment in
it.

I could not remember his exact words, but about the sense of them I was
positive.

"Ask him what he thinks of me, as if you wanted to know yourself,"
Barbara instructed me, "and don't forget what he says this time. I'm
curious." And though it seemed to me a foolish command--for what could
he say of her more than I myself could tell her--I never questioned
Barbara's wishes.

Yet if I am right in thinking that jealousy of Mrs. Teidelmann may have
clouded for a moment Barbara's sunny nature, surely there was no reason
for this, seeing that no one attracted greater attention throughout the
dinner than the parlour-maid.

"Where ever did you get her from?" asked Mrs. Florret, Barbara having
just descended the kitchen stairs.

"A neat-handed Phillis," commented Dr. Florret with approval.

"I'll take good care she never waits at my table," laughed the wife
of our minister, the Rev. Cottle, a broad-built, breezy-voiced woman,
mother of eleven, eight of them boys.

"To tell the truth," said my mother, "she's only here temporarily."

"As a matter of fact," said my father, "we have to thank Mrs. Hasluck
for her."

"Don't leave me out of it," laughed Hasluck; "can't let the old girl
take all the credit."

Later my father absent-mindedly addressed her as "My