and
conversation than under the maternal eye. "Teacher," as she was understood
and accepted by the house of Yellett, undoubtedly filled a long-felt want.
Presiding over a school of six-imp power for a week, however, had humbled
Mary to the point of seriously considering a letter to the home
government, meekly asking for return transportation. But this was before
feminine wile had struggled with feminine vanity, and feminine wile won
the day. School still continued to open at six, from which early and
unusual hour it continued, without recess or interruption, till noon, when
dinner pleasantly invaded the scholastic monotony, to the infinite relief
of all parties concerned.

Mary had dismissed her pupils a few minutes before the usual hour, on a
particularly bad day, that she might rally her scattered faculties and
present something of a countenance to the watchful eye of Mrs. Yellett.
Every element of humor had vanished from the situation. The inverted tub
was no longer a theme for merriment in her diary; home-life without a
house was no longer a diverting epigram; she had closed her eyes that she
might not see the mountains in all their grandeur. In her present mood of
abject homesickness the white-capped peaks were part and parcel of the
affront. With head sunk in the palms of her hands, and elbows resting on
the inverted tub, Mary presented a picture of woe, in which the wicked
element of comedy was not wholly lacking. Looking up suddenly, she saw
Judith Rodney advancing. The first glimpse of her put Mary in a more
rational mood.

"I'm so glad to see you! Behold my class-room appointments! They may seem
a trifle novel, but, for that matter, so are my pupils," began Mary,
determining to present the same front to Judith that she had to Mrs.
Yellett. But Judith was not to be put off. She looked into Mary's eyes and
did not relax her gaze until she was rewarded with an answering twinkle.
Then Mary laughed long and merrily, the first good, hearty laugh since the
beginning of her teaching.

"Tell me," Mary broke out, suddenly, "or the suspense will kill me, who
wrote that lovely letter--on such good quality Irish linen, too? Snob that
I was, it was the letter that did it."

"So you have your suspicions that it was not a home product?"

"You didn't do it, did you?"

"Oh no; though I was asked, and so was Miss Wetmore, I believe. Of course
poor Mrs. Yellett had no other recourse, as I suppose you know. I chose to
be d