I filed half a bushel of tradesmen’s price lists and laundry data.
I put the whole household on a milk-pudding diet, rather than waste the numerous samples of milk left, by rival and mutually abusive dairymen, in a row of cans at the side door.
And when a sumptuously apparelled resident called to say that the previous occupant had always contributed liberally to the local working men’s brass band, I tried to look gratified to hear of such generosity—though I had the presence of mind to say I should not be at home on Saturday evening when they proposed to serenade me in the front garden.
Yes, it was a pleasant and peaceful couple of days, and I dare say I should have been all the better for the complete rest, had not the telephone men and the gas stove men called simultaneously with the electrical engineers (who had been summoned to see why the electric light sulked), and, with a unanimity of purpose that was truly beautiful in a world so full of variance, they all set to work to take up floor-boards, in rooms and halls where the carpets and lino had been laid—the twenty-seven standing around and assisting with reminiscence and anecdote.
Then it was that the Head of Affairs put down a firm foot and insisted on the Flower-Patch.
At first Abigail was reluctant to leave such bright scenes in the kitchen as she hadn’t known for several years; but, remembering that a halo of distinction surrounds the bearer of exclusive information, no matter how unimportant, she set off cheerfully next morning, and we followed a day later.
She prided herself on the tactful way she broke her news to the village.
“Hasn’t Miss Klickmann come down ’long with ’ee?” inquired Mrs. Widow and the handy man in unison.
“You’ll never see Miss Klickmann again,” Abigail replied in funereal tones.
“Oh! You don’t tell me so! Poor dear thing! though I knowed she wasn’t long for this world,” and kind-hearted Mrs. Widow started to mop her eyes with her apron. “Was it very suddint at the last?”