"The cushions are dripping wet," she observed.
"I washed 'em on purpose, ma'am. They was spattered thick with mud."
"There is danger of spoiling the leather if you put on too much water."
She turned to an inspection of the rest of the room, sniffing dubiously in the corner where the harness greasing was carried on, and lifting her skirts a trifle higher.
"It's disgustingly dirty," she commented, "but I suppose you can't help it."
"Axle grease is sort o' black," Peter agreed graciously.
"Well," she resumed, returning to her errand with an appearance of reluctance, "I want you, William—or Peter either, it does n't matter which—to drive into the village this evening to meet the eight-fifteen train from the city. I am expecting a new maid. Take Trixy and the buckboard and bring her trunk out with you. Eight-fifteen, remember," she
