"Please, ma'am," said Mary, "could I have one of my boxes taken
up stairs?"
"Certainly not. I can not have two movings of them; I must take
care of my men. And your boxes, I understand, are heavy, quite
absurdly so. It would _look_ better in a young person not to
have so much to carry about with her."
"I have but two boxes, ma'am," said Mary.
"Full of _books_, I am told."
"One of them only."
"You must do your best without them to-night. When I have made up
my mind what is to be done with you, I shall let you have the one
with your clothes; the other shall be put away in the box-room. I
give my people what books I think fit. For light reading, the
'Fireside Herald' is quite enough for the room.--There--good
night!"
Mary courtesied, and left her. At the door she glanced this way
and that to find some indication to guide her steps. A door was
open at the end of a passage, and from the odor that met her, it
seemed likely to be that of the kitchen. She approached, and
peeped in.
"Who is that?" cried a voice irate.
It was the voice of the second cook, who was there supreme except
when the _chef_ was present. Mary stepped in, and the woman
advanced to meet her.
"May I ask to what I am indebted for the honner of this
unexpected visit?" said the second cook, whose head its
overcharge of self-importance jerked hither and thither upon her
neck, as she seized the opportunity of turning to her own use a
sentence she had just read in the "Fireside Herald" which had
taken her fancy--spoken by Lady Blanche Rivington Delaware to a
detested lover disinclined to be dismissed.
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