gaily recounted her climax of confusion and weariness, and the sudden appearance of this ministering angel. "She arrived at about quarter of ten. I engaged her inside of five minutes. She was into a gingham gown and at work by ten o'clock!"
"What promptness! And I suppose there was plenty to do!"
Mrs. Porne laughed unblushingly. "There was enough for ten women it seemed to me! Let's see—it's about five now—seven hours. We have nine rooms, besides the halls and stairs, and my shop. She hasn't touched that yet. But the house is clean—clean! Smell it!"
She took her guest out into the hall, through the library and dining-room, upstairs where the pleasant bedrooms stretched open and orderly.
"She said that if I didn't mind she'd give it a superficial general cleaning today and be more thorough later!"
Mrs. Weatherstone looked about her with a rather languid interest. "I'm very glad for you, Belle, dear—but—what an endless nuisance it all is—don't you think so?"
"Nuisance! It's slow death! to me at least," Mrs. Porne answered. "But I don't see why you should mind. I thought Madam Weatherstone ran that—palace, of yours, and you didn't have any trouble at all."
"Oh yes, she runs it. I couldn't get along with her at all if she didn't. That's her life. It was my mother's too. Always fussing and fussing. Their houses on their backs—like snails!"
"Don't see why, with ten (or is it fifteen?) servants."
"Its twenty, I think. But my dear Belle, if you imagine that when you have twenty servants you have neither work nor care—come and try it awhile, that's all!"
"Not for a millionaire baby's ransom!" answered Isabel promptly.
"Give me my drawing tools and plans and I'm happy—but this business"—she swept a white hand wearily about—"it's not my work, that's all."
"But you enjoy it, don't you—I mean having nice things?" asked her friend.
"Of course I enjoy it, but so does Edgar. Can't a woman enjoy her home, just as a man does, without running the shop? I enjoy ocean travel, but I don't want to be either a captain or a common sailor!"
Mrs. Weatherstone smiled, a little sadly. "You're lucky, you have other interests," she said. "How about our bungalow? have you got any farther?"
Mrs. Porne flushed. "I'm sorry, Viva. You ought to have given it to someone else. I haven't gone into that workroom for eight solid days. No help, and the baby, you know. And I was always dog-tired."
"That's all right, dear, there's no very great rush. You can get at it now, can't you—with this other Belle to the fore?"
"She's not Belle, bless you—she's 'Miss Bell.' It's her last name."
Mrs. Weatherstone smiled her faint smile. "Well—why not? Like a seamstress, I suppose."
"Exactly." That's what she said. "If this labor was as important as that of seamstress or governess why not the same courtesy—Oh she's a most superior and opinionated young person, I can see that."
"I like her looks," admitted Mrs. Weatherstone, "but can't we look over those plans again; there's something I wanted to suggest." And they went up to the big room on the third floor.
In her shop and at her work Isabel Porne was a different woman. She was eager and yet calm; full of ideas and ideals, yet with a practical knowledge of details that made her houses dear to the souls of women.
She pointed out in the new drawings the practical advantages of kitchen and pantry; the simple but thorough ventilation, the deep closets, till her friend fairly laughed at her. "And you say you're not domestic!"
"I'm a domestic architect, if you like," said Isabel; "but not a domestic servant.—I'll remember what you say about those windows—it's a good idea," and she made a careful note of Mrs. Weatherstone's suggestion.
That lady pushed the plans away from her, and went to the many cushioned lounge in the wide west window, where she sat so long silent that Isabel followed at last and took her hand.
"Did you love him so much?" she asked softly.
"Who?" was the surprising answer.
"Why—Mr. Weatherstone," said Mrs. Porne.
"No—not very much. But he was something."
Isabel was puzzled. "I knew you so well in school," she said, "and that gay year in Paris. You were always a dear, submissive quiet little thing—but not like this. What's happened Viva?"
"Nothing that anybody can help," said her friend. "Nothing that matters. What does matter, anyway? Fuss and fuss and fuss. Dress and entertain. Travel till you're tired, and rest till you're crazy! Then—when a real thing happens—there's all this!" and she lifted her black draperies disdainfully. "And mourning notepaper and cards and servant's livery—and all the things you mustn't do!"
Isabel put an arm around her. "Don't mind, dear—you'll get over this—you are young enough yet—the world is full of things to do!"
But Mrs. Weatherstone only smiled her faint smile again. "I loved another man, first," she said. "A real one. He died. He never cared for me at all. I cared for nothing else—nothing in life. That's why I married Martin Weatherstone—not for his old millions—but he really cared—and I was sorry for him. Now he's dead. And I'm wearing this—and still mourning for the other one."
Isabel held her hand, stroked it softly, laid it against her cheek.
"Oh, I'll feel differently in time, perhaps!" said her visitor.
"Maybe if you took hold of the house—if you ran things yourself,"—ventured Mrs. Porne.
Mrs. Weatherstone laughed. "And turn out the old lady? You don't know her. Why she managed her son till he ran away from her—and after he got so rich and imported her from Philadelphia to rule over Orchardina in general and his household in particular, she managed that poor little first wife of his into her grave, and that wretched boy—he's the only person that manages her! She's utterly spoiled him—that was his father's constant grief. No, no—let her run the house—she thinks she owns it."
"She's fond of you, isn't she?" asked Mrs. Porne.
"O I guess so—if I let her have her own way. And she certainly saves me a great deal of trouble. Speaking of trouble, there they are—she said she'd stop for me."
At the gate puffed the big car, a person in livery rang the bell, and Mrs. Weatherstone kissed her friend warmly, and passed like a heavy shadow along the rose-bordered path. In the tonneau sat a massive old lady in sober silks, with a set impassive countenance, severely correct in every feature, and young Mat Weatherstone, sulky because he had to ride with his grandmother now and then. He was not a nice young man.
Diantha found it hard to write her home letters, especially to Ross. She could not tell them of all she meant to do; and she must tell them of this part of it, at once, before they heard of it through others.
To leave home—to leave school-teaching, to leave love—and "go out to service"
