your mother has awakened from
her nap, she will be quite ready for her tea. May I go into the kitchen
a moment? I want Biddy to boil these eggs--they are new-laid; and
perhaps you could find me a plate for the butter'; and as Mollie ran off
Audrey turned coolly into the kitchen--a pleasant apartment, overlooking
the street--where she found a little old woman, with a wrinkled face and
dark, hawk-like eyes, standing by the hearth watching the boiling
kettle.

The kitchen was in the same state of chaos as the dining-room--the table
covered with unwashed dishes, and crates half unpacked littering the
floor. It was evident Biddy was no manager. As she stood there in her
dirty cotton gown, with her thin gray hair twisted into a rough knot,
and a black handkerchief tied loosely over her head, she was the image
of Fairy Disorder; her bent little figure and the blackened poker in her
hand carried out the resemblance, as she looked up with her bright,
peering eyes at the tall young lady who confronted her.

'Do you think I could find a saucepan, Biddy?'

'I suppose there is one about somewhere,' was the encouraging answer.
'Perhaps Miss Mollie will be knowing; she boiled some potatoes for
dinner.'

'Do you mean this?' regarding the article with some disfavour. 'Would it
trouble you very much to wash it while I make the tea? I have some nice
fresh eggs, which I think they will all enjoy.'

But Biddy only returned a snapping answer that was somewhat
unintelligible, and carried out the saucepan with rather a sour face.

'Disagreeable old thing!' thought Audrey, as she made the tea, but she
afterwards retracted this hasty judgment.

Biddy was a bad manager, certainly, but she was not without her virtues.
She was faithful, and would slave herself to death for those she loved;
but she was old for work, and the 'ache,' as she called it, had got into
her bones. She had slept on the floor for two nights, and her poor old
back was tired, and her head muddled with the confusion and her
mistress's fretful fussiness. Biddy could have worked well if any one
had told her exactly what to do, but between one order and
another--between Mr. Cyril's impatience and Miss Mollie's incapable,
youthful zeal--she was just 'moithered,' as she would have said herself.

She brought back the saucepan after a minute, and Audrey boiled the
eggs. As she looked down at the hissing, bubbling water, an amused smile
stole over her features.

'If only Gage