Later came a most apologetic note from the missing handy man. He was ill—seriously ill. The doctor had forbidden his leaving the house for at least a week. He was greatly distressed—in English of remarkable spelling—because he was inconveniencing Miss Ryder, but he didn't want to give up the place altogether, and if he might be allowed to send a substitute for a week or so he would surely be able to take up work again at the end of that time. He had a friend in mind—a nice, respectable young fellow who would do the work well and could be trusted even with the silver—a bit youngish, perhaps, but willing and handy. Should he send him?
Miss Lucilla answered by messenger. The young man was to come at once. The snow must be shoveled from the steps and walk before time for the day scholars to arrive. She hoped James would soon be able to return, but she would give his friend a trial.
Half an hour later a manly young fellow in very shabby clothes presented himself, had an interview with Miss Lucilla, who told her sister that he seemed a very decent person, and adjusted to his shoulders the burden of duties laid down by James. He bore the burden lightly, did his work with cheerful conscientiousness, and made himself useful in many ways unknown to the former incumbent. Norah and the other maid smiled upon him ineffectively.
"Always ready to lend ye a hand at an odd job, but divil a kiss or a bit of love-making behind the door," Norah explained to Amelia, who had sniffed an incipient romance below stairs when she first saw the new man.
Miss Lucilla congratulated herself upon the addition to her staff of servants and sought an excuse for letting James go altogether and cleaving to his friend. The teachers sang the praises of Augustus, the girls found him obliging and resourceful in smuggling, the servants couldn't pick quarrels with him. Evidently here was a gem of purest ray serene—that pearl beyond price, a perfect servant.
The incomparable Augustus was seldom in evidence above the basement, save when he went to the study for orders, moved the furniture, or did odd jobs of carpentering; but he was intrusted with the cleaning and setting in order of the big schoolroom, and Katharine Holland was occasionally in his way there. She liked to study before breakfast.
One Tuesday night, when study hour was over, the girls had gone to their rooms, and the downstairs lights were out, Belinda sat in her room, correcting examination papers. She struggled through the pile, reached the last paper, and found that several sheets of it were missing. A careful search in the room failed to bring them to light; and the Youngest Teacher, with a frown of vexation between her pretty brows, picked up a match, girded her dressing gown about her, and making no noise in her knitted bedside slippers, went swiftly down the stairs.
The door of the large schoolroom, where she expected to find her missing papers, was closed; and as Belinda stopped before it she fancied that she heard a murmur of voices beyond the door. She hesitated, smiled at herself, struck a match sharply, and threw open the door.
There was a sudden movement in the room—a smothered exclamation. The light of the match fell full upon a man who held a girl in his arms.
So much Belinda saw before she put out her hand to the electric button and turned on the light.