We had not thought of that before and every one looked blank.  Finally, however, Jim said Bella’s middle name was Constantia, and we decided to call her that.  But it turned out afterward that nobody could remember it in a hurry, and generally when we wanted to attract her attention, we walked across the room and touched her on the shoulder.  It was quicker and safer.

The name decided, we went downstairs in a line to welcome Bella, to try to make her feel at home, and to forget her deplorable situation.  Leila had worked herself into a really sympathetic frame of mind.

“Poor dear,” she said, on the way down.  “Now don’t grin, anybody, just be cordial and glad to see her.  I hope she doesn’t cry; you know the spells she takes.”

We stopped outside the door, and everybody tried to look cheerful and sympathetic, and not grinny—­which was as hard as looking as if we had had a cup of tea—­and then Jim threw the door open and we filed in.

Bella was comfortably reading by the fire.  She had her feet up on a stool and a pillow behind her head.  She did not even look at us for a minute; then she merely glanced up as she turned a page.

“Dear me,” she said mockingly, “what a lot of frumps you all are!  I had hoped it was some one with my breakfast.”

Then she went on reading.  As Leila said afterward, that kind of person ought to be divorced.

Aunt Selina came down just then and I left everybody trying to explain Bella’s presence to her, and fled to the kitchen.  The Harbison man appeared while I was sitting hopelessly in front of the gas range, and showed me about it.

“I don’t know that I ever saw one,” he said cheerfully, “but I know the theory.  Likewise, by the same token, this tea kettle, set on the flame, will boil.  That is not theory, however, that is early knowledge.  ‘Polly, put the kettle on; we’ll all take tea.’  Look at that, Mrs. Wilson.  I didn’t fight bacilli with boiled water at Chickamauga for nothing.”

And then he let out the policeman and brought him into the kitchen.  He was a large man, and his face was a curious mixture of amazement, alarm and dignity.  No doubt we did look queer, still in parts of our evening clothes and I in the white silk and lace petticoat that belonged under my gown, with a yellow and black pajama coat of Jimmy’s as a sort of breakfast jacket.

“This is Officer Flannigan,” Mr. Harbison said.  “I explained our unfortunate position earlier in the morning, and he is prepared to accept our hospitality.  Flannigan, every person in this house has got to work, as I also explained to you.  You are appointed dishwasher and scullery maid.”

The policeman looked dazed.  Then, slowly, like dawn over a sleeping lake, a light of comprehension grew in his face.

“Sure,” he said, laying his helmet on the table.  “I’ll be glad to be doing anything I can to help.  Me and Mrs. Wilson—­we used to be friends.  It’s many the time I’ve opened the carriage door for her, and she with her head in the air, and for all that, the pleasant smile.  When any one around her was having a party and wanted a special officer, it was Mrs. Wilson that always said, Get Flannigan, Officer Timothy Flannigan.  He’s your man.’”