twinkly-eyed, frank young girl who presented herself at our door one fine morning with her hat askew and an over-worked "grip" in her hand.
She smiled confidingly, and explained that she'd got on the wrong tram, but the man had been that friendly, Mem. She called me "Mem" from the first, and the Irish brogue of her was music to the ear. She was but eighteen, eager and ready for new worlds to conquer, but had never been in a real kitchen before. I must say my own ardor was damped by this admission, but not hers.
"I'll soon be larnin' how youse like it done, Mem," she would say with cheerful nonchalance.
We were in charge (I almost wrote "grip") at the moment, of a highly accomplished, serious-minded Lady-help of English extraction and lofty connection, who had studied French in Paris and Household Science in New York. She was now getting her "practical" experience in before going on West to let her light shine before a more appreciative and larger-pursed circle of admirers. She was fearfully competent. Our domicile had undergone a unique transformation. The corners
