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"Don't pull that bandage so tight, doctor. You want to have me running over after you in an hour to come and loosen it." "That's it, Mehitabel; teach your grandmother to suck eggs. I come here, Mr. Wynne, chiefly to learn my profession from her."
I always tell Maria everything that I conveniently can it is not well for a man to have secrets from his wife and when I occasionally refer to my past flames I find myself often growing more than pridefully loquacious over my early affairs of the heart, but when I thought of the serious study that I once made in my twentieth year of the dozen easiest, most painless methods of committing suicide because Miss Mehitabel Flanders, aetat thirty-eight, whom I had chosen for my life's companion, had announced her intention of marrying old Colonel Barrington one of the wisest matches ever as I see it now I drew the line at letting Maria into that particular secret of my career.
She wanted to break out into singing, so sweet is the delight of new love unrecognized save as simple joy in living. The entrance of Mehitabel with the card of Mr. Stanford brought her back to earth. "Already?" she said, feeling as if she were defrauded that thus her moment of enjoyment was cut short.
"Mehitabel can help me, my dear. Go into the other room and let Rosa get you a cup of tea." "It won't be much of a cup of tea," Mehitabel commented grimly. "That fool of a girl's got it into her head that it's a good time to cry for her doxy, because he's a brakeman on some other train." Berenice smiled at the characteristic crispness and the absurd speech of the old servant.
I wouldn't cry, if I were you," Berenice said. "Mehitabel says that this wasn't his train." "Oh, I know it, Miss," responded Rosa, with more tears; "but I can't help thinking how dreadful it would be if it was; and me not to know whether he was dead or alive. It don't seem to me I could ever marry him, not to be able to tell whether he'd come home any day dead or alive.
It was all very novel and interesting, but Stevie told Mehitabel, in confidence, that he would rather, any day, listen to her reminiscences of her long-ago school days in her little New England village home, or, better still, to her stories of George Washington, and the other great spirits of the Revolutionary period, and of Abraham Lincoln and the men of his time.
Mehitabel was to her as much a part of the establishment as were the tall chairs, the lion-headed fire-dogs, or the silver which had belonged to her grandmother's grandmother. Passing into the dining-room Berenice summoned the afflicted Rosa, who came with face all be-blubbered with tears, and who sniffed audibly as soon as she caught sight of the visitor. "How do you do, Rosa?
"I suppose my clothes were pretty well used up," he replied, divided between a desire to laugh and a feeling that he should resent the affront to his clerical garb; "and of course my baggage is nowhere. Can I get clothing here, or shall I have to send to Boston?" "You can't get men's petticoats," Mehitabel retorted uncompromisingly, "nor none of them Popish things.
In this year the servant Mehitabel died, and the other servant, Preserved Smith, left without coherent explanation or at least, with only some wild tales and a complaint that he disliked the smell of the place.
Then he ordered a dozen little tin pails sent to his own house. "For my picnic," he explained, as Midget looked at him wonderingly. "It's to be a sand-pail picnic, you know." As they neared the ice-cream garden, Marjorie noticed a forlorn-looking little boy, near the entrance. So wistful did he look, that she turned around to look at him again. "Who's your friend, Mehitabel?" said Mr.
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