Sarah moved her head restlessly on the pillow and sighed heavily. "Oh! everything; but I believe the servants are the worst aggravation of all."
"What's the matter with 'em?" asked David; "don't they do their work right?"
"No, they don't," said Sarah despairingly. "I never saw such cleanin' as that Bertha does—dust behind the doors and on the window sills; and she never takes up a rug, and the windows look like Jacob's cattle, all ringed and striped and streaked. And Nelly's just as bad. The dish towels are a sight, and the kitchen closet's in such a mess I can't sleep for thinkin' of it. I never could stand dust, especially in my kitchen; you know that, David. And here we are payin' these good-for-nothin' creatures every week almost as much money as you used to earn in a month! It's enough to drive me crazy." It was the lamentation of a housekeeper, a cry as old as civilization, that Sarah was uttering, and David heard it sympathetically, for his wife's troubles were his own.
"Can't you make 'em do their work right?" he asked.
"Make 'em?" Sarah's voice rose in a petulant wail. "No, I can't. I can make myself work, but I don't know how to make anybody else work."
"Do they ever give you any back talk?" asked David.
"No, they don't," said Sarah, a dull flush crimsoning her face. "They're polite enough to my face, but, David, I believe they laugh at us both behind our backs. Two or three times I've turned around right quick, and I've seen a look on their faces that made me want to turn 'em out of the house."
David's face hardened. "Why don't you discharge 'em?" he asked grimly.
"Oh! I don't know how," said Sarah fretfully. "It seems to me you ought to know that, without being told. I never discharged anybody in my life. I wouldn't know what to say. Don't you have to give servants warning before you turn 'em off?"
David deliberated a moment. "Either they have to give you warning, or you have to give them warning, or maybe it's both," he announced. "I guess it would take a lawyer to settle that question."