"What is it, dear?" she asked, very softly.
"I seem to be so marked off from other men; but I've dreamed all my life of having in my house a neat, proper, real parlor maid in a pretty white cap and apron. Do you think it can be managed?"
With her head on his knee she said in a queer voice:
"Yes, I think it can."
He touched her cheek and suddenly drew his hand away.
"Why, you're crying! What a selfish brute I am! Of course we won't have her if she would be in your way."
Emmy lifted her face to him.
"Oh, you dear, beautiful, silly Septimus," she said, "don't you understand? Isn't it just like you? You give every one else the earth, and in return you ask for a parlor maid."
"Well, you see," he said in a tone of distressed apology, "she would come in so handy. I could teach her to mind the guns."
"You dear!" cried Emmy.