the course of her window washing, her
shoulders enveloped in an old red shawl, she was vigorously hailed from
below.

"Ship ahoy! Your name, cargo, and destination?"

Without turning she called merrily back: "The Jefferson, with a cargo of
books, bound for the public!"

"What's that? I don't get you."

"Never mind. I'm too busy to be spoken by every passing ship."

"I'll be up," called the voice, and footsteps sounded upon the porch.
The front door banged, the same ringing male voice was heard shouting a
"Good-morning, sir!" and the owner of the voice came leaping up the
stairs and burst into the room without ceremony. He advanced till he was
close to the open window, and nodded through the glass at the
window-washer, who sat on the sill with her upper body outside.

He was a fine specimen of youth and brawn and energy, the young man whom
Georgiana had pointed out to her friends as one of her resources when it
came to the good times they were so anxious to know of. His name was
James Stuart, and he was a near neighbour of the manse. He was a college
graduate of three years' longer standing than Georgiana, and he, like
her, had returned to the country home and his father's farm because his
aging parents could not spare him, and he was the only son whose lack of
other ties left him free to care for them. He and this girl had been
schoolmates and long-time friends--with interesting intervals of enmity
during the earlier years--and were now sworn comrades, though they still
quarrelled at times. It looked, after a minute, as if this would be one
of those times.

"I didn't just get you," complained James Stuart through the window.

"Wait till I come in. I can't tell all the neighbours."

Georgiana polished off her last pane, pushed up the window and slipped
into the room, quite unnecessarily assisted by Stuart.

"I can't understand," began the young man, eying with approval her
blooming face, frost-stung and smooth in texture as the petals of a
rose, "why you're washing the windows of a room that's always shut up."

"Jimps, if you were Mrs. Perkins next door I'd understand your consuming
curiosity. As it is----"

"Going to have company?"

She shook her head.

"Then--what in thunder----"

"We're going to have a boarder, if you must know." Georgiana began to
attack the inside of the window.

"A boarder! What sort?"

"A very good sort. He's a literary person with a book to write."

"Suffering cats! Not the