“I don’t know how to go to work,” she said to Sylvia one day.  “Of course I must have a maid, but I wonder if I had better advertise or write some of my friends.  Betty Morrison may know of some one, or Sally Maclean.  Betty and Sally always seem to be able to find ways out of difficulties.  Perhaps I had better write them.  Maybe it would be safer than to advertise.”

Sylvia and Rose were sitting together in the south room that afternoon.  Sylvia looked pathetically and wistfully at the girl.  “What do you want a maid for?” she asked, timidly.

Rose stared.  “What for?  Why, what I always want a maid for:  to attend to my wardrobe and assist me in dressing, to brush my hair, and—­everything,” ended Rose, comprehensively.

Sylvia continued to regard her with that wistful, pathetic look.

“I can sew braid on your dresses, and darn your stockings, and button up your dresses, and brush your hair, too, just as well as anybody,” she said.

Rose ran over to her and went down on her knees beside her.  “You dear,” she said, “as if you didn’t have enough to do now!”

“This is a very convenient house to do work in,” said Sylvia, “and now I have my washing and ironing done, I’ve got time on my hands.  I like to sew braid on and darn stockings, and always did, and it’s nothing at all to fasten up your waists in the back; you know that.”

“You dear,” said Rose again.  She nestled her fair head against Sylvia’s slim knees.  Sylvia thrilled.  She touched the soft puff of blond hair timidly with her bony fingers.  “But I have always had a maid,” Rose persisted, in a somewhat puzzled way.  Rose could hardly conceive of continued existence without a maid.  She had managed very well for a few days, but to contemplate life without one altogether seemed like contemplating the possibility of living without a comb and hair-brush.  Sylvia’s face took on a crafty expression.

“Well,” said she, “if you must have a maid, write your friends, and I will have another leaf put in the dining-table.”

Rose raised her head and stared at her.  “Another leaf in the dining-table?” said she, vaguely.

“Yes.  I don’t think there’s room for more than four without another leaf.”

“But—­my maid would not eat at the table with us.”

“Would she be willing to eat in the kitchen—­cold victuals—­after we had finished?”

Rose looked exceedingly puzzled.  “No, she would not; at least, no maid I ever had would have,” she admitted.

“Where is she going to eat, then?  Would she wait till after we were through and eat in the dining-room?”

“I don’t believe she would like that, either.”

“Where is she going to eat?” demanded Sylvia, inexorably.

Rose gazed at her.

“She could have a little table in here, or in the parlor,” said Sylvia.

Rose laughed.  “Oh, that would never do!” said she.  “Of course there was a servants’ dining-room at Mrs. Wilton’s, and there always is in a hotel, you know.  I never thought of that.”