ition strongly points to the likelihood that the critics
themselves chronically live beyond their means and in constant danger of
collapse.

If this was thought of us a few weeks ago, it seems to have been
sidetracked by Maria Maxwell's contribution to, and management of, the
golf tea. She is said not only to have compounded viands that are
ordinarily sold in exchange for many dollars by New York confectioners,
but she certainly made more than a presentable appearance as "matron" of
the receiving committee of young girls. Certainly Maria with a music
roll, a plain dark suit, every hair tethered fast, and common-sense
shoes, plodding about her vocation in snow and mud, and Maria "let
loose," as Bart calls it, are a decided contrast. Except that she has
not parted with her sunny common-sense, she is quite a new person. Of
course I could not have objected to it, but I was afraid that she might
take it into her head to instruct the Infant in vocal music after the
manner of the locustlike sounds that you hear coming over the lowered
tops of school windows as soon as the weather grows warm, or else take
to practising scales herself, for we had only known the technical part
of her calling. In short, we feared that we should be do-re-mi-ou'd past
endurance. Instead of which, scraps of the gayest of ballads float over
the knoll in the evening, and the Infant's little shrill pipe is being
inoculated with real music, _via_ Mother Goose melodies sung in a
delightfully subdued contralto.

From the third day after her arrival people began to call upon Maria. I
made such a positive declaration of surrender of all matters pertaining
to the household, including curiosity, when Maria took charge,--and she
in return promised that we should not be bothered with anything not "of
vital importance to our interests,"--that, unless she runs through the
housekeeping money before the time, I haven't a ghost of an excuse for
asking questions,--but I do wonder how she manages! Also, to whom the
shadows belong that cross the south piazza at night or intercept the
rays of the dining-room lamp, our home beacon of dark nights.

In addition to the usual and convenient modern shirt-waist-and-skirt
endowment, Maria had when she came but two gowns, one of black muslin
and the other white, with improvised hats to match,--simple, graceful
gowns, yet oversombre.

But lo! she has blossomed forth like a spring seed catalogue, and Bart
insists that I watched