remember me by.

"And with kind remembrances to yourself and Aubrey, I am

"Your slave,

"JIMMIE."

CHAPTER XIII

THE BREAKING UP OF MARY

Prosperity disagrees with some people. But with Mary I have always
thought it was jealousy.

As long as we had no one but her, and she practically ran the house and
us, too, she was the same faithful, honest, sympathetic soul, who first
won our young love at the Waldorf during our honeymoon, but after we
came to Peach Orchard and needed old Amos for the horses, and a
gardener, and two extra maids in the house, Mary's thrift took wings,
and no Liande de Pougy or Otero could exceed her extravagance in
ordering things she did not want, and never could use.

I noticed that the bills were becoming perfectly unbearable, and, never
dreaming that our good, faithful Mary could be at fault,--she, who used
to declare that she had walked ten blocks to find lettuce at eight
cents a head instead of nine, and who never could be persuaded that her
time at home was worth far more to me than that extra cent,--I spoke to
the grocer and asked him what he meant by such prices.

"It isn't the prices, Mrs. Jardine--it's the quantity you have been
ordering. Are you running a hotel?"

"No," I said. "Not that I know of."

"Well," he answered. "Look here; here's three gallons of olive-oil
you've ordered in one week."

"Three gallons!" I gasped. "You mean three bottles."

"No, ma'am! Three gallons!"

"Who ordered it?"

"That there old woman of yours,--the one that cusses so."

"You mean Mary?" I asked, incredulously.

"I don't know what her name is, but I know her tongue when I hear it.
A white-haired old lady with specs."

"That must be Mary," I mused.

"Well, 'm, she said Mr. Jardine ate salad twice a day, and needed lots
of oil."

"So he does," I observed, drily, "but he doesn't bathe in it."

This pleasantry was quite lost on the grocer, for he hastened to agree
with me, with a--

"Sure he doesn't," and a convincing wag of the head, as who should say,
"Let no man accuse my friend, Mr. Jardine, of bathing in olive-oil,
while I am about!"

It was very soothing.

"Well, just send it back, Mrs. Jardine," said he, presently, "it's in
gallon cans and sealed."

I went home with wrath in my soul, but intending to modify my bill by
at least three gallons of olive-oil. To my horror, however, I found
that Mary had opened all three cans, and filled, perhaps, but one crue