“Morning,” he grunted, and took another dish, this one containing a section of dry and ancient cake, Seth’s manufacture, from the pantry.

“What you doin’?  Gettin’ breakfast this time of day?” asked the housekeeper, entering the kitchen.  She had a small bowl in her hand.

“No,” replied Brown.

“Dinner, then?  Pretty early for that, ain’t it?”

“I am not getting either breakfast or dinner—­or supper, madam,” replied the helper, with emphasis.  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Well, I don’t know but there is.  I come over hopin’ you might.  How’s the stings?”

“The what?”

“The wasp bites.”

“They’re all, right, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, I’m sure.  Did you put the cold mud on ’em, same as I told you to?”

“No. . . .  What was it you wanted?”

Mrs. Bascom looked about for a seat.  The rocker was at the opposite side of the room, and the other chair contained a garment belonging to Mr. Atkins, one which that gentleman, with characteristic disregard of the conventionalities, had discarded before leaving the kitchen and had forgotten to take with him.  The lady picked up the garment, looked at it, and sat down in the chair.

“Your boss is to bed, I s’pose likely?” she asked.

“You mean Mr. Atkins?  I suppose likely he is.”

“Um.  I judged he was by”—­with a glance at the garment which she still held—­“the looks of things.  What in the world are you doin’—­cleanin’ house?”

The young man sighed wearily.  “Yes,” he said with forced resignation, “something of that sort.”

“Seein’ what there was to eat, I guess.”

“You guess right.  You said you had an errand, I think.”

“Did I?  Well, I come to see if I couldn’t . . .  What’s that stuff?  Cake?”

She rose, picked up a slice of the dry cake, broke it between her fingers, smelled of it, and replaced it on the plate.

“’Tis cake, ain’t it?” she observed; “or it was, sometime or other.  Who made it?  You?”

“No.”

“Oh, your boss, Mr.—­er—­Atkins, hey?”

“Yes.  Considering that there are only two of us here, and I didn’t make it, it would seem pretty certain that he must have.”

“Yes, I guess that’s right; unless ’twas some that washed ashore from Noah’s Ark, and it’s too dry for that.  What on earth are these?” picking up one of the molasses cookies; “stove lids?”

Brown grinned, in spite of his annoyance.

“Those are supposed to be cookies,” he admitted.

“Are they?  Yes, yes.  Mr. Atkins responsible for them?”

“No—­o.  I’m afraid those are one of my experiments, under Mr. Atkins’s directions and orders.  I’m rather proud of those cookies, myself.”

“You’d ought to be.  There, there!” with a smile, “I guess you think I’m pretty free with my criticism and remarks, don’t you?  You must excuse me.  Housekeepin’—­’specially the cookin’ part—­is my hobby, as you might say, and I was interested to see how a couple of men got along with the job.  I mustn’t set around and keep you from your work.  You might want to make some more cookies, or somethin’.”