s laid
in exact parallels, to the decorous geraniums and mignonettes growing
in the starch box at the window, underneath the fish globe with its
one venerable gold fish. That day Miss Baker had been doing a bit of
washing; two pocket handkerchiefs, still moist, adhered to the window
panes, drying in the sun.

"Oh, I guess you got something you don't want," Maria went on, peering
into the corners of the room. "Look-a-here what Mister Grannis gi'
me," and she held out the yellow pitcher. Instantly Miss Baker was in a
quiver of confusion. Every word spoken aloud could be perfectly heard in
the next room. What a stupid drab was this Maria! Could anything be more
trying than this position?

"Ain't that right, Mister Grannis?" called Maria; "didn't you gi' me
this pitcher?" Old Grannis affected not to hear; perspiration stood on
his forehead; his timidity overcame him as if he were a ten-year-old
schoolboy. He half rose from his chair, his fingers dancing nervously
upon his chin.

Maria opened Miss Baker's closet unconcernedly. "What's the matter with
these old shoes?" she exclaimed, turning about with a pair of half-worn
silk gaiters in her hand. They were by no means old enough to throw
away, but Miss Baker was almost beside herself. There was no telling
what might happen next. Her only thought was to be rid of Maria.

"Yes, yes, anything. You can have them; but go, go. There's nothing
else, not a thing."

Maria went out into the hall, leaving Miss Baker's door wide open, as
if maliciously. She had left the dirty pillow-case on the floor in the
hall, and she stood outside, between the two open doors, stowing away
the old pitcher and the half-worn silk shoes. She made remarks at the
top of her voice, calling now to Miss Baker, now to Old Grannis. In a
way she brought the two old people face to face. Each time they were
forced to answer her questions it was as if they were talking directly
to each other.

"These here are first-rate shoes, Miss Baker. Look here, Mister Grannis,
get on to the shoes Miss Baker gi' me. You ain't got a pair you don't
want, have you? You two people have less junk than any one else in the
flat. How do you manage, Mister Grannis? You old bachelors are just like
old maids, just as neat as pins. You two are just alike--you and Mister
Grannis--ain't you, Miss Baker?"

Nothing could have been more horribly constrained, more awkward. The two
old people suffered veritable torture. When Maria had g