"Well, they've come to you without looking, then," said Jim. "Any commands for me? Can't I help you in any way?"
"No, Jim, unless—well, you know my good Mary is the great wheel of this establishment, and if she breaks down we all go too—for I shouldn't know what to do a single day without her."
"Well, what has happened to this great wheel?" said Jim. "Has it a cold in its head, or what?"
"Come, Jim, don't make fun of my metaphors; the fact is, that Mary's daughter, Maggie, has run off again and left her."
"Just what she might have expected," said Jim.
"No; Maggie was doing very well, and I really thought I should make something of her. She thought everything of me, and I could get along with her perfectly well, and I found her very ingenious and capable; but her relations all took up against her, and her uncle came in last night and talked to her till she was in a perfect fury."
"Of course," said Jim, "that's the world's way; a fellow can't repent and turn quietly, he must have his sins well rubbed into him, and his nose held to the grindstone. I should know that Maggie would flare up under that style of operation; those great black eyes of hers are not for nothing, I can tell you."
"Well, you see it was last night, while I was up at papa's, that her uncle came, and they had a stormy time, I fancy; and when Harry and I came home we found Maggie just flying out of the door in desperation, and I brought her back, and quieted her down, and brought her to reason, and her mother too, and made it all smooth and right. But, this morning, came in Aunt Maria—"
Jim gave a significant whistle.