“I’m very sorry, mum,” replied Martha, with an odd, half-frightened look in her watery eyes.  “I’d promised to go and see my brother as has just lost his wife; but of course, if it isn’t convenient, mum—­”

“It really is not, Martha.  Miss Bertha will be out all day, and I don’t like being left alone You shall go to-morrow instead.”

Half an hour later, Mrs. Cross went out shopping, and was away till noon.  On returning, she found the house full of the odour of something burnt.

“What’s this smell, Martha?” she asked at the kitchen door, “what is burning?”

“Oh, it’s only a dishcloth as was drying and caught fire, mum,” answered the servant.

“Only!  What do you mean?” cried the mistress, angrily.  “Do you wish to burn the house down?”

Martha stood with her arms akimbo, on her thin, dough-pale face the most insolent of grins, her teeth gleaming, and her eyes wide.

“What do you mean?” cried Mrs. Cross.  “Show me the burnt cloth at once.”

“There you are, mum!”

And Martha, with a kick, pointed to something on the floor.  Amazed and wrathful, Mrs. Cross saw a long roller-towel, half a yard of it burnt to tinder; nor could any satisfactory explanation of the accident be drawn from Martha, who laughed, sobbed, and sniggered by turns as if she were demented.

“Of course you will pay for it,” exclaimed Mrs. Cross for the twentieth time.  “Go on with your work at once, and don’t let me have any more of this extraordinary behaviour.  I can’t think what has come to you.”

But Martha seemed incapable of resuming her ordinary calm.  Whilst serving the one o’clock dinner—­which was very badly cooked—­she wept and sighed, and when her mistress had risen from the table, she stood for a long time staring vacantly before she could bestir herself to clear away.  About three o’clock, having several times vainly rung the sitting-room bell, Mrs. Cross went to the kitchen.  The door was shut, and, on trying to open it, she found it locked.  She called “Martha,” again and again, and had no reply, until, all of a sudden, a shrill voice cried from within—­“Go away!  Go away!” Beside herself with wrath and amazement, the mistress demanded admission answer, there came a violent thumping on the door at the other side, and again the voice screamed—­“Go away!  Go away!”

“What’s the matter with you, Martha?” asked Mrs. Cross, beginning to feel alarmed.

“Go away!” replied the voice fiercely.

“Either you open the door this moment, or I call a policeman.”

This threat had an immediate effect, though not quite of the kind that Mrs. Cross hoped.  The key turned with a snap, the door was flung open, and there stood Martha, in a Corybantic attitude, brandishing a dinner-plate in one hand, a poker in the other; her hair was dishevelled, her face red, and fury blazed in her eyes.

“You won’t go away?” she screamed “There, then—­there goes one of your plates!”