feather man from St. Louis. You know she did! And now she's got that new
little dude with an off eye and, besides, Larry Finn's come back. I tell
you it ain't fair to Jarge and you're to blame, too, if you don't stop
it!"

Mrs. O'Brien shared with Rosie the conviction that an engaged girl
ought not so much as raise her eyes to other men. She was done forever
with all men but one. Ellen, for some reason, did not feel this
instinctively and, if a girl does not feel it instinctively, how is she
to be made to feel it? Mrs. O'Brien sighed. Unknown to Rosie she had
tried to speak to Ellen. Ellen had not let her go very far.

"Say, Ma, you dry up!" she had told her shortly. "I guess I know what
I'm doing."

"I'm sure you do," Mrs. O'Brien had murmured in humble apology; "but,
Ellen dear, be careful! There's a lot of people know you're engaged to
Jarge and I'm afraid they'll be talkin'."

"Let 'em talk!" was Ellen's snappish answer.

So when Rosie approached her mother on the same subject, Mrs. O'Brien
hemmed and hawed and ended by offering a defence of Ellen which sounded
hollow even to herself. "As for that feather fella, Rosie dear, you
mustn't get excited about him. It's a matter of business to keep him
jollied. Miss Graydon wants Ellen to be nice to him. And, as I says to
Ellen, 'If that's the case,' says I, 'of course you've got to accept his
little attentions. Miss Graydon,' says I, 'is your employer and a girl
ought always to please her employer.' As you know yourself, Rosie,
Ellen's certainly getting on beautifully in that shop. Miss Graydon told
me herself the other night that she had never had a girl so quick and
tasty with her needle and when I told her about me own poor dead
sister, Birdie, she said that explained it."

"But, Ma," Rosie cried, "what about poor Jarge?"

"Jarge? Why, Jarge is all right. He's out there in the country and you
know yourself he's crazy about the country. And more than that, Ellen
writes him a picture postcard every week. She gave me her word she'd do
it. I couldn't very well insist on her writing a letter, for you know
her long hours at the shop and it wouldn't be right to ask her to use
her eyes at night. 'But, Ellen dear,' says I to her, 'promise me
faithfully you'll never let a week go by without sending him a picture
postcard.' And she gave me her word she wouldn't."

Mrs. O'Brien could always be depended on to obscure reason in a dust of
words, especially at times when it w