“I mean that you’re going to get up; that’s what!” replied a firm female voice.  “It’s 8 o’clock, and I want to put your room in order; and I’m not going to wait all day about it, either!  Get up and go down to your breakfast, and let me have the room!” And the clamor at the door was industriously renewed.

“Say!” called John, querulously, hurrying on his clothes, “Say! you!”

“There’s no ‘say’ about it!” responded the determined voice:  “I’ve heard about you and your ways around this house, and I’m not going to put up with it!  You’ll not lie in bed till high noon when I’ve got to keep your room in proper order!”

“Oh ho!” bawled John, intelligently:  “reckon you’re the new invasion here?  Doubtless you’re the girl that’s been hanging up the new window-blinds that won’t roll, and disguising the pillows with clean slips, and ‘hennin’ round among my books and papers on the table here, and ageing me generally till I don’t know my own handwriting by the time I find it!  Oh, yes! you’re going to revolutionize things here; you’re going to introduce promptness, and system, and order.  See you’ve even filled the wash-pitcher and tucked two starched towels through the handle.  Haven’t got any tin towels, have you?  I rather like this new soap, too!  So solid and durable, you know; warranted not to raise a lather.  Might as well wash one’s hands with a door-knob!” And as John’s voice grumbled away into the sullen silence again, the determined voice without responded:  “Oh, you can growl away to your heart’s content, Mr. McKinney, but I want you to distinctly understand that I’m not going to humor you in any of your old bachelor, sluggardly, slovenly ways, and whims and notions.  And I want you to understand, too, that I’m not hired help in this house, nor a chambermaid, nor anything of the kind.  I’m the landlady here; and I’ll give you just ten minutes more to get down to your breakfast, or you’ll not get any—­that’s all!” And as the reversed cuff John was in the act of buttoning slid from his wrist and rolled under the dresser, he heard a stiff rustling of starched muslin flouncing past the door, and the quick italicized patter of determined gaiters down the hall.

“Look here,” said John to the bright-faced boy in the hotel office, a half hour later.  “It seems the house here’s been changing hands again.”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy, closing the cigar case, and handing him a lighted match.  “Well, the new landlord, whoever he is,” continued John, patronizingly, “is a good one.  Leastwise, he knows what’s good to eat, and how to serve it.”

The boy laughed timidly,—­“It aint a landlord,’ though—­it’s a landlady; it’s my mother.”

“Ah,” said John, dallying with the change the boy had pushed toward him.  “Your mother, eh?” And where’s your father?”

“He’s dead,” said the boy.

“And what’s this for?” abruptly asked John, examining his change.

“That’s your change,” said the boy:  “You got three for a quarter, and gave me a half.”