he looked vaguely at the kitchenmaid for a moment, and then
asked her to go away. "I'm busy," explained Priscilla, whose hands
were folded in her lap.

"Please miss, what do you wish for luncheon?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm the--assistant cook at the 'All, miss. Lady Shuttleworth's
assistant cook. Sir Augustus desired me to cook for you to-day."

"Then please do it."

"Yes miss. What do you wish for luncheon?"

"Nothing."

"Yes miss. And the gentleman--don't he want nothing neither?"

"He'll probably tell you when he does."

"Yes miss. It's as well to know a little beforehand, ain't it, miss.
There's nothing in the--a-hem--'ouse, and I suppose I'd have to buy
something."

"Please do."

"Yes miss. Perhaps if you'd tell me what the gentleman likes I could
go out and get it."

"But I don't know what he likes. And wouldn't you get wet? Send
somebody."

"Yes miss. Who?"

Priscilla gazed at her a moment. "Ah yes--" she said, "I forgot. I'm
afraid there isn't anybody. I think you had better ask my uncle what
he wants, and then if you would--I'm very sorry you should have such
bad weather--but if you don't mind, would you go and buy the things?"

"Yes miss."

The girl went away, and Priscilla began for the first time to consider
the probability of her having in the near future to think of and order
three meals every day of her life; and not only three meals, but she
dimly perceived there would be a multitude of other dreary things to
think of and order,--their linen, for instance, must be washed, and
how did one set about that? And would not Fritzing's buttons presently
come off and have to be sewn on again? His socks, when they went into
holes, could be thrown out of the window and new ones bought, but even
Priscilla saw that you could not throw a whole coat out of a window
because its buttons had come off. There would, then, have to be some
mending done for Fritzing, and Annalise would certainly not be the one
to do it. Was the simple life a sordid life as well? Did it only look
simple from outside and far away? And was it, close, mere drudging? A
fear came over her that her soul, her precious soul, for whose sake
she had dared everything, instead of being able to spread its wings in
the light of a glorious clear life was going to be choked out of
existence by weeds just as completely as at Kunitz.

The Shuttleworth kitchenmaid meanwhile, who was not hindered at every
turn by a regard for her soul, made he