If this was thought of us a few weeks ago, it seems to have been sidetracked by Maria Maxwell’s contribution to, and management of, the golf tea.  She is said not only to have compounded viands that are ordinarily sold in exchange for many dollars by New York confectioners, but she certainly made more than a presentable appearance as “matron” of the receiving committee of young girls.  Certainly Maria with a music roll, a plain dark suit, every hair tethered fast, and common-sense shoes, plodding about her vocation in snow and mud, and Maria “let loose,” as Bart calls it, are a decided contrast.  Except that she has not parted with her sunny common-sense, she is quite a new person.  Of course I could not have objected to it, but I was afraid that she might take it into her head to instruct the Infant in vocal music after the manner of the locustlike sounds that you hear coming over the lowered tops of school windows as soon as the weather grows warm, or else take to practising scales herself, for we had only known the technical part of her calling.  In short, we feared that we should be do-re-mi-ou’d past endurance.  Instead of which, scraps of the gayest of ballads float over the knoll in the evening, and the Infant’s little shrill pipe is being inoculated with real music, via Mother Goose melodies sung in a delightfully subdued contralto.

From the third day after her arrival people began to call upon Maria.  I made such a positive declaration of surrender of all matters pertaining to the household, including curiosity, when Maria took charge,—­and she in return promised that we should not be bothered with anything not “of vital importance to our interests,”—­that, unless she runs through the housekeeping money before the time, I haven’t a ghost of an excuse for asking questions,—­but I do wonder how she manages!  Also, to whom the shadows belong that cross the south piazza at night or intercept the rays of the dining-room lamp, our home beacon of dark nights.

In addition to the usual and convenient modern shirt-waist-and-skirt endowment, Maria had when she came but two gowns, one of black muslin and the other white, with improvised hats to match,—­simple, graceful gowns, yet oversombre.

But lo! she has blossomed forth like a spring seed catalogue, and Bart insists that I watched the gate with his field-glass an hour the afternoon of the tea, to see her go out.  I did no such thing; I was looking at an oriole’s nest that hangs in the elm over the road, but I could not help seeing the lovely pink flower hat that she wore atilt, with just enough pink at the neck and streamers at the waist of her dress to harmonize.

I visited the larder that evening for supper supplies,—­yes, we have become so addicted to the freedom of outdoors that for the last few days Bart has brought even the dinner up to camp, waiting upon me beautifully, for now we have entirely outgrown the feeling of the first few days that we were taking part in a comedy, and have found ourselves, as it were—­in some ways, I think, for the first time.