You were always so dead tired and your feet ached so when you came to the serving of a dinner, what with cleaning and running around making salad and fruit things all day. And then the standing up and carrying things in and out for an hour and a half more and being so scared of something going wrong every minute.

It was roasting hot in the kitchen and all the lights glaring. There must be millions of blue and white checks in the room, on the floor and curtains and Bridget's apron; and on even the oil-cloth on the tables and the dish-towels hanging up.

"Don't spill the soup,' Delia said. Bridget had ought to have had the soup all ready poured for her, not keeping her waiting. Now she'd have to hurry.

There she'd nearly dropped a plate getting free of the swinging door from the pantry. She had spilled some over the edge onto her finger. Just thinking of dropping it gave her chills like ghosts' fingers playing the piano up and down her spine. Sometimes she dreamed about someone's joggling her elbow and her spilling a plate full of soup down some woman's back. How they'd jump and squeak if she did and they'd feel like killing her, but they'd coo like doves and pretend it didn't matter a bit. That class of people was always lying to be polite. But you couldn't fool the working classes. The working class of women were the ones with the morals. You never saw one of them smoking, hardly ever, that was.

There were two more plates of soup. That was the worst thing to carry and it was mean of Bridget to be hissing about her being slow.

She wasn't slow; she was the fastest waitress in the park. Cream of mushroom soup was good. She hoped there'd be some left over. There hadn't been time for the help to have any supper and she felt sort of faint with being hungry and carrying that good smell of cream of mushroom soup.

She could order whatever she wanted to eat at the hotel in Niagara. She'd always wanted to stay at one of those big hotels with bell-boys and lumps of sugar, each one wrapped up in paper. It couldn't be wrong to go off to Niagara with some one who was your own lawfully married husband in a past inchrysanthemum. No, that wasn't the right word. But it couldn't be wrong because if it was wrong she wouldn't do it. She wouldn't do anything that wasn't right.

And the spirits knew. They knew all about her coming from Ireland and her mother's being dead, the very first day she and Rosie Flynn had gone to the Vincent's high-class medium parlors. Rosie had gone off to a place on Long Island so she couldn't get in to go any more but, of course, Delia could every other Thursday. Surely your own mother's spirit couldn't be lying to you.

Now she'd have to pass the little sticks of toast with the soup. There, Mr. Anthony dropped one and it was just the color of the rug. Mrs. Bangs had her silver slippers off under the table. How funny their feet all looked. Here was the toast. behind the leg of the man-wholooked-like-a-frog's chair. Whew, how hot her face was from leaning over like that! Everybody'd liked

these toast sticks. Now they were talking about sicknesses and Mrs. Anthony was trying to get them to stop-not so they'd notice it, though. She was a clever one. They never saw it but she was getting them to telling funny stories. Delia wondered if Mr. Anthony would tell his one about the Irishman and the parrot that he almost always told. Not always but one half the time anyway.

Now the soup-plates had to go out. Saints! how her feet ached and her shoes were beginning to squeak. They always did when she was tired. There was an imp inside her shoes pinching her toes and yelling out, squeaking like that. A little red A little red imp with a pitchfork maybe. She wished that she could step on him and squash him, but every time she stepped he gave a jump and stuck his pitchfork into a different place in her foot and gave a little yell. She hoped Mrs. Anthony wouldn't hear him.

The kitchen was getting hotter and hotter and a June-bug as big as a bat was banging around on the ceiling. Martha was was down now because the children were fast asleep and she was sitting in the corner by the stove, yawning. But she was awfully in the way. And dishes that had to be washed were piling up like mountains on the kitchen table. They'd have to be washing till midnight nearly. It was mean of Bridget not to be doing it through the dinner.

The silver platter with broiled chicken on it was awful heavy and so large it was hard to pass between people. Her arms ached and her face got hot as fire before she was

through the whole eight of them. Never mind, when she used to be Queen of Sheba she'd sat on a gold throne all covered with purple velvet and she'd worn a rope of pearls, four times as long and as big as Mrs. Bangs's, wound all around her neck. And slaves had brought her things to eat on gold plates and if they hadn't passed them properly on the left side she'd hit them with the gold stick thing she always carried, and Mr. Vincent-only he was Solomon then-he'd sat at the other end of the table eating out of gold plates too and in a grand dress-suit of red velvet with a gold and diamond watch-chain across his chest. And he even had a gold toothpick with a diamond on the other end. Wasn't it wonderful what a ouija-board knew, and it such a silly looking little table-thing running around the board under your hands like a cat. She'd nearly jumped out of her skin when it spelled out:

"This is your mother's spirit talking to you. Mr. Vincent was your lawful wedded husband in a past in-" something or other. Well, anyway, there was her dead mother telling her, and Mr. Vincent himself said he distinctly remembered putting putting a ring on her finger when he was Solomon, and she'd been awful careless to lose it, and they were already man and wife and it was against the law to have a second ceremony. And her mother's spirit had said a lot more too. She'd said, "Go to Niagara with your husband Solomon. And don't forget to take all your money out of the savingsbank before you go. It's going to burn down." When she heard that she went right down to the bank on

her next Thursday out and took out all her money. Two hundred dollars is an awful uncomfortable lump in your stocking. Delia was scared to death it was slipping down and would show like a big ugly bump on her leg. But anyway it was safe there and Mr. Vincent said he'd take care of it for her when they got to Niagara Falls.

Now she'd passed the chicken and the candied sweet-potatoes and the peas and jelly and olives and celery and rolls and there was Bridget hissing the other side of the door in the pantry. Now what did she want?

"What ye hissing like that for at me?" she asked Bridget, when she got out into the pantry.

"Fill the glasses again." "Ye've been spyin' on me through the crack. I'm going to fill them."

She filled the glasses, carefully. Bridget had no right to be spying on her. She knew her work. She was the best waitress in the park and she had as good a character as anybody. She could look the Queen of England in the face and not be blushing. Nobody was kind to her but Mr. Vincent. Jim-the-iceman didn't count.

Now she had to take out the dinnerplates and bring in the salad. Everybody liked alligator-pear salad. It had been fun fixing it, too, all the slices of alligator-pear in a sort of design like.

If she could only make up her mind about Mr. Vincent. What she needed was a sign from the spirits. Mr. Vincent said they were always there ready to help us and all we had to do was to think hard and get our questions across the ether to their

auras. Then they answered by a sign. Like if you see three lame men in a subway it's a sign for you to buy brown shoes instead of black ones. Like that, it is. She'd tried it, shutting her eyes and opening a Bible she'd found on one of the book-shelves, but she'd opened it to a part that said, "Ammon was two and twenty years old when he began to reign and reigned two years in Jerusalem." Now you couldn't tell from that what it was a sign you were to do. She'd wanted to look up about Solomon and the Queen of Sheba but she hadn't known where to find about them and when they were married.

Were they married? She mustn't drop the salad-plates even though an idea did hit her like a slap in the face. And Bridget was standing right in her way by the kitchen sink.

"Was Solomon married to the Queen of Sheba?" Bridget was slipping the mousse out of its mold and wouldn't answer her. "Was Solomon married to the Queen of Sheba, Martha?"

Martha yawned again and said, "Oh, go 'long with your dinner. Don't ask me." These nurses were always so mean, never lifting a hand to help you!

"There's still three salad-plates on the table," Bridget said, "and the crumbs to be got off. Get a move on yer or the mousse'll melt."

Well, wasn't she hurrying as fast as she could? It only took a minute to get off the salad-plates and no time at all to crumb the table. Mr. Anthony would know if the Queen of Sheba and Solomon had been married. He'd know. Oh, if she could only ask him one question!

Just whisper it in his ear. Or why couldn't she just say out loud:

"Excuse me, but does any one of you know if Solomon and the Queen of Sheba was married?" It was wicked that she couldn't ask itwicked. She was so scared thinking about it her heart jumped like a rabbit's. Maybe her mother's spirit'd made a mistake. Her mother was a real lovely mother but she'd never known much about kings and queens when she was alive and why should she know more about them now that she was dead. Sure there was a chance that she and Mr. Vincent were both mistaken. My, how Delia wanted to cry and she was so awful, awful tired! And the people were laughing and making such a racket; the women all with their backs bare like cream and the men with their heads going bald on top. What was there to be laughing at, anyway? She'd burst out crying in another minute. Maybe if she bit her lip hard enough she could keep the tears back.

Bridget was mad because the mousse was beginning to melt. Little drops of raspberry ice were running like blood into the bottom of the silver platter. The silver was nice and cool on Delia's hands. She'd have to think up something for a sign and pray to the spirits to tell her about the Queen of Sheba. She'd have to pray to some one who knew, one of the saints, maybe. They'd know more than her mother even. What would do for a sign? They were all telling funny stories at the table and the noise made your head spin. Delia wondered if Mr. Anthony would tell that one about the parrot-oh, that was it. She'd

go out in the pantry and pray to a saint quickly, St. Elizabeth, the one that used to be a queen; likely she knew about who was married and who wasn't. Everybody'd been served with the mousse and she must go out to get the little cakes with pink and white icing and yellow flowers on the icing.

It was quiet in the pantry and the light there was sort of dim. Like a little church. If you put your hands over your eyes you could almost think you were in one.

"Blessed saints, blessed St. Elizabeth," she whispered, "send me a sign. If the Queen of Sheba was after being married to Solomon whisper in Mr. Anthony's ear to tell his parrot story. If she wasn't married, don't let him tell it. Amen."

Then she had to hurry out for the cakes. And everybody made a great fuss over them, they were so pretty. There was a little icing bird on one.

Mr. Grant was telling a funny story that had been on the radio last Thursday and everybody was pretending they hadn't heard it before. It was about the rabbit and the minister.

The saints should be hearing her prayer by now. Yes, and there was Mr. Anthony leaning back to tell a story. Oh, God, she mustn't faint! She ought to go on out in the kitchen but she couldn't stir a step if the ceiling fell on her. Mr. Anthony was saying:

"Did you ever hear that one about the Irishman?"

"Oh, Peter, you tell that parrot story at every dinner."

"No, this is a new one. It has nothing whatever to do with a parrot. Nothing at all. Once there was an Irishman, a burglar-"