She waited for another question, but Mrs. Keating could think of none to ask. So Mollie herself inquired:

ters to let in the gay spring sunshine, and left her to drink her tea in heavenly comfort and quiet. She stopped long

"I don't know. You see, I had an ayah-an Indian woman-who took entire charge of-of everything. Of course I would n't expect any one else to do what she did-"

"There's nothing could be done by any heathen woman that I could n't do," said Mollie, respectful, but stern. "You can safely leave everything to me, ma'am, as Mrs. Lyons will tell you."

"I'm sure of it," Mrs. Keating began, and again recollected her husband and her own rôle of competent mistress. "Would you tell me why you left Mrs. Lyons?"

"The children grew up," said Mollie, soberly. "It 's hard, when you 've been with them day and night for all them years, but it's what 's to be expected. It 's nature."

"Well," said Mrs. Keating, "I don't see why-if you like it, you might try the place for a while, and see how we get on together."

"Yes, ma'am," said Mollie, and stood for a moment looking quietly at her new mistress. Then, as she looked, her sunburned and impassive face broke slowly into an indulgent smile.

"Everything will be all right now," she remarked kindly. "Lie down, ma'am, and rest."

Mrs. Keating not moving, she took Imatters into her own hands, made the bed deftly, and, patting the pillows, said soothingly:

"Come now, ma'am, lie down! There, I'll take them hairpins out of your hair and make a braid that 'll give your head more comfort. Now! Wait and I'll cover up your feet and close the shutters. After a bit I 'll maybe bring you up a cup of tea."

She was gone, stepping softly, shoes squeaking comfortably, vast skirt rustling.

Mrs. Keating fell asleep, closed her eyes upon a complex and troubled world, opened them upon peace. Mollie, coming up with a tray, had tactfully waked her, propped her up with pillows, brushed and coiled her hair, opened the shut

about her young family, and went serenely about her business again.

When Keating got home that evening, he encountered a delightful peace and orderliness in his household. He was prepared to be amiable, anyway, to atone for his morning ferocity, and this evidence of reform on the part of his wife still further softened him. He started up the stairs with a whistle absolutely cheerful, when a stout, grayhaired stranger appeared before him, finger to lips, and whispered:

"Hush, sir! The baby 's asleep! The children are in the nursery, sir."

So he went into the nursery and found them there at tea, clean and contented, and with a new air of restraint that profoundly pleased him. They were evidently being "managed." He watched them for a time in solemn satisfaction, and then went into his wife's room to compliment her-indirectly, of course -upon her judgment and discrimination.

"You seem," he said, "to have found a very good, useful sort of woman."

Mrs. Keating, refreshed, rested, at ease regarding the future, had not the least intention of telling her husband that she had n't found Mollie, that Mollie had, in fact, simply materialized. Neither did she intend to let him know that she had n't investigated the apparition's references, and never meant to, either.

"Rob," she said firmly, "she is absolutely the ideal nurse!"

She

And she was. Undoubtedly. went out that evening, and returned later with a large valise, and installed herself in the nursery, whence day after day she ruled the household with wise tyranny. She was infallible, supreme, beyond appeal, yet so discreet that no one resented her authority; not even the irritable master chafed under it. Within a month she had become the indispensable, inevitable thing, the sun, one might poetically say, of their universe. They relied upon her for everything good, yet took her as a matter of course.

Keating was, I think, the only one

who really appreciated her. To see her in the evening, sitting in the dimly lighted corridor outside the nursery door, hands folded, rocking placidly, prepared apparently to wait there eternally; or to watch her on the lawn with the children, watchful as some mother animal, and as little interfering; to observe her limitless discretion, to hear her calm voice, satisfied his very soul. They never spoke to each other except for a "Good morning, Mollie,"

and a "Good morning, sir," decorously exchanged. But he, with his profound British propriety, and she, with her inborn Irish decorum, were always in accord, always understood each other. Not for them to inquire, to experiment; they were of the elect who knew by instinct and tradition what was the right and proper course at all times.

So you may imagine how amazing and disgusting it was for him to hear that Mollie had a "follower." Mrs. Keating had long

ciously, "take this. It'll last you till dinner-time. And don't you be hanging about here, Steve. It won't do."

As the man went off with his sandwich, Keating made a point of getting a good look at him, and was shocked. A man of perhaps fifty, with an alarmingly red face, drooping black mustache, a heavy, beefy, slovenly fellow without a collar. Keating at once decided or insistedin his own mind that this was Mollie's reprobate brother. It could not be otherwise; it should not be. He kept as silent in regard to this follower as his wife did.

ago heard rumors, which she preferred to keep to herself. The cook had told her of a mysterious man whom Mollie supplied with table scraps. She had rebuked the cook for tale-bearing, and told her she was quite sure Mollie was incapable of anything improper.

"I don't care," she said to herself, "how many followers she has. I know she's a perfectly respectable woman, and I'm not going to interfere with her."

It was on a Sunday that Mr. Keating discovered the thing. He was weeding a beloved flower bed when he heard voices at the back of the house and went quietly to see. He saw Mollie handing an immense sandwich to a man.

"Here," she said somewhat ungra

For months the follower haunted the premises, resolutely ignored by every one. He really was n't any trouble even to the cook. He appeared once or twice a week and got a package of food, scrupulously selected by Mollie from what would otherwise have been wasted. It represented on her part a struggle between honesty and propri

ety and a nice balance achieved. She would n't rob her employers of the very meanest scrap, but neither would she give to any human being food that was n't clean and decent. She used to stand out on the back steps in the dusk, talking to the man, and after a bit he would go away with his honest package, while she returned to the kitchen, affable, but not to be questioned.

Apart from the follower, this remarkable woman had but a single weakness and a most amazing one. This was a passion for tobacco coupons. She even ventured to break her silence with Mr. Keating and to address him on the subject, to his great surprise. It was a Sunday evening, cook's night off, and Mollie was obligingly waiting on the

supper-table. They had finished; she was taking out the cold pudding when Mr. Keating lighted a cigar, and she suddenly spoke to him.

"Excuse me, sir," she said, "but is n't that one of them Victor cigars?"

He stared at her. "Yes," he said.

"I take the liberty of asking, sir, because I don't know whether or not you 've any use for the coupons they

""Take this. It'll last you till dinner-time""

give with them. Two with every Victor. Because, sir, if you have n't any use for them-"

"Never keep them," said Keating. "Are you collecting them, Mollie?" his wife inquired.

"Yes, ma'am," she replied, with modest triumph. "I 've near a thousand. Mr. Lyons used to give me all he had, and other people. When I 've two thousand," she added, "there's an elegant tea-set, a hundred pieces, I have me eye on."

After that Keating was punctilious in preserving the coupons given with the Victor and bringing them home to Mollie. He showed an unaffected interest in her tea-set, too; she showed him

the picture of it in the catalogue of premiums, and assured him that she had gone to see it in person and that it was still more imposing in reality than in the picture. It is not impossible that he consumed more Victors than he really wanted or were good for him. He would have done more than that for the excellent woman. What is more, he thoroughly understood her ambition. Mrs. Keating had kind-heartedly suggested buying a similar tea-set and presenting it to Mollie as a Christmas gift, but he refused. He knew that the thing would lose all its virtue that way. It must be pointed out and displayed as having been secured with Victor coupons; otherwise it would be like any ordinary tea-set.

In view of his strong sympathy with Mollie, then, one may imagine his feelings on that miserable evening when they came across the follower in so disgraceful a way. They were returning from the theater; they had come decorously up the garden path in the moonlight, arm in arm, and there he was, lying on their front steps, drunk and asleep and snoring.

Keating shook him.

"Get up!" he cried roughly. "Be off with you!"

"A-a tramp," Mrs. Keating suggested, although she had perfectly recognized that red face and that black mustache.

"Of course," her husband answered impatiently, and shook the man again, with more violence. "Here! Wake up! Be off with you!"

But he was not to be roused, and he could n't be moved. They went in and left him there, snoring under the moon, a shameful blot upon Mollie's fair name. With solemn duplicity Mrs. Keating suggested sending for the police to remove the creature, and was immeasurably relieved when her husband refused, as she had expected he would. Her heart almost stopped beating at the very idea of losing Mollie, of losing dignity, comfort, security.

Mr. Keating suffered from the same anxiety, because he, too, had immediately recognized the follower. He got up early the next morning, a Sunday, and looked quietly and cautiously out of the

front window. The man was still there and still asleep, a yet more disgusting object in the morning sunshine, his mouth open, his dank black hair plastered over his red forehead. He was dressed in a flannel undershirt, a pair of outrageous old trousers, and carpet slippers. Where could he have come from in such a costume? And what possible quality in him could appeal to that soul of propriety that was Mollie?

Unfortunately, steps must be taken; the follower could n't any longer be ignored. Keating put on a dressinggown and went quietly along the hall to the nursery, whence came a cheerful babel properly hushed for Sunday.

He knocked on the door.

"Mollie," he called, "will you come out and speak to me for a minute?"

She appeared without an instant's delay.

"Yes, sir?"

"There's a man outside. I believe he 's known to you. He's been there all night, drunk. If you think you can get him away quietly—"

"Yes, sir," she answered, without the slightest change of voice or expression; "I think I can. Perhaps you'd be so good, sir, as to sit in the nursery for half a minute. They 'll look at their picturebooks like lambs. And the baby 's asleep."

For no one else under the sun would Keating have taken sole charge of his children for any fraction of a minute; now, however, he consented at once, and was sitting meekly enough in Mollie's big rocking-chair when she reentered.

"He's gone, sir," she said.
Keating got up.

"We there 's no need to mention the occurrence to any one," he said. "Only don't let him hang about, will you?" Mollie shook her head sadly.

"I'm afraid I can't help it, sir," she answered. "I 've done my best. But when once this sort of thing begins there's no hope. He 's my husband."

Try as she would to remain respectfully calm, the tears stood in her eyes, and her lips quivered.

"It's a great cross to me, sir," she said. "He 's hounded me from place to place. All the time growing worse and

worse, the way his kind always does. Since I've left Mrs. Lyons, I've had no peace at all. I've tried my best. We lost our little home two years ago because of his-ways, and-and every time I've set about saving up again, he "

She could n't go on for a minute.

"I'm sorry, sir, and ashamed that you should be troubled by him when you 've been so kind. And I did love the children, indeed I did. But now that he 's got in the way of coming here, there'd be no end to it. I've got to go.'

"Nonsense!" said Keating; "we sha'n't hold you responsible for that-for him. And perhaps you could get rid of him once and for all. I'll speak to my lawyer-"

"In my church, sir, we don't look on it that way. He 's my husband, that I chose of my own free will, and I 've got to put up with him the best I can till one of us is dead."

She dried her eyes.

"I'll see that Mrs. Keating 's not too much put about by my leaving," she said. "I'll take it on myself to find a new nurse."

Mrs. Keating was overwhelmed with dismay when Mollie told her.

"Oh, no!" she entreated, "don't go! We'll find work for your husband. He can take care of the garden or the furnace if you 'd like."

"He would n't stick to it, ma'am. He says the only thing to keep him straight and sober would be a home of his own again. So I think I'll try it once more, ma'am. 'T is no use trying to keep a situation, the way things is now."

They helped her in every possible way. Keating was generous beyond his wife's expectation; gave lavish assistance toward furnishing the little home, and took great trouble to find a job for Steve. He even "talked to" Steve, tried to impress upon him how fine a wife he had, and how he ought to honor and cherish her. Steve quite agreed, was even fulsome in his praise of Mollie, but said it was almost impossible to cherish any one who was so much away from home.

"Whin we 're settled, boss," he said, "you 'll see! I'm a fine fellow, I am,

and a great hand for work, give me only something to work for. You'll see, boss."

No one, however, was able to have any faith in Steve. He was so obviously just what he was and nothing more, and he so shamelessly traded upon the indulgence extended to Mollie's husband. He had an exasperating, cunning air about him. "You'll do it for Mollie's sake," his expression seemed to say triumphantly, while he humbly asked the most outrageous favors.

The last day came; the new nurse, hopelessly inferior and wholesomely impressed with that fact, was installed after a course of training personally conducted by Mollie. Mollie, bag in hand, her eyes still red from taking leave of the children, came in to bid good-by to Mr. and Mrs. Keating. And Mr. Keating gave her a final gift of a package of Victor coupons sufficient to complete her hoard. This gift moved her inordinately; she found it almost impossible to maintain her composed, respectful manner. She would, one felt, have liked to kiss his hand or fall at his feet or do something equally extravagant. Mrs. Keating's handsome and thoughtful farewell gift was as nothing at all in comparison.

"O Mr. Keating, sir!" she cried, "all these! Oh, I'm sure, sir, you 've no need of so many Victors!"

"I bought a few boxes in advance," he told her. "They 'll be all the better for aging. Don't worry; they won't be wasted."

He had, in fact, by this time acquired an incorrigible appetite for Victors; he never afterward smoked any other brand. They had become more or less hallowed by the worthy creature who had so well cared for his children.

She had a final request, in absolutely the proper tone of deference and pride mingled. If, when she did get that teaset, Mr. and Mrs. Keating would do her the favor to come and see it in her own home? They agreed readily, and at last she left, the door closed after her; she was gone. Once again there descended upon them that old fear well known to all parents, that fear of their children. They dreaded lest they should hear the baby cry or Robert's voice in

his nightly demands for drinks of water, handkerchiefs, or assuagements for his spiritual alarms. Once again had the whole alarming load settled upon their shoulders, for now there was no Mollie. The new nurse, good enough in her way, found it necessary to come to them for instruction on every possible point, from safety-pins to prayers. She was earnest, kind, trustworthy; but she was not authority.

In the course of time came a letter from Mollie.

Mrs. Keating, dear madam, I have it all planned to get the Tea Set on Saturday morning and if you and Mr. Keating and master Robert and Miss Lucy would call by in the afternoon there would be home made ice cream and cake which would not hurt them and they would I know like to see the plates with birds on as I often showed them in the premiums book Mollies Tea Set they called it. Respectfully yours

MOLLIE DILLON.

The Keatings arrived at what Mrs. Keating imagined would be the expected hour, at three o'clock, or thereabouts. To do honor to Mollie the children were dressed up as she loved to see them, decorous and well-starched and wearing gloves. She met them at the door of her flat, not dressed up herself, because Steve's income never stretched to include clothing. Food, shelter, and his whisky consumed it all. But she was, of course, neat and clean, and beyond measure correct in an old white linen dress given her years ago by Mrs. Lyons. She led them into the tiny parlor and invited them to sit down, but was pleased and flattered when they asked to be shown about the place. Stiff, orderly, hideous, every inch of it, everything brand-new and shining, a "parlor set," a "dining-room set,' a "bedroom set," all designed and executed for the world's Mollies and, accordingly, giving them absolute satisfaction. And all so clean and beautifully cared for as to be a little pitiful, as were, above all, the many tokens of the gratitude the good woman had inspired in her life. There were photographs of all the Lyons family at various ages, and pictures relating to older services, records, indeed, of a long life of service, faith