It is nearly six months since I came to live with Mrs. Francis, and I like housework so well and am so happy at it, that it shows clearly that I am not a disguised heiress.  My proud spirit does not chafe a bit at having to serve meals and wear a cap (you should see how sweet I look in a cap).  I haven’t got the fear on my heart all day that I will make a mistake in a figure that will rise up and condemn me at the end of the month as I used to be when I was book-keeping on a high stool, for the Western Hail and Fire Insurance Company (peace to its ashes!).  “All work is expression,” Fra Elbertus says, so why may I not express myself in blueberry pie and tomato soup?

Mrs. Francis is an appreciative mistress, and she is not so entirely wrapped up in Browning as to be insensible to a good salad either, I am glad to say.

One night after we had company and everything had gone off well, Mr. Francis came out into the kitchen, and looked over his glasses at me.  He opened his mouth twice to speak, but seemed to change his mind.  I knew what was struggling for utterance.  Then he laid fifty cents on the window sill, pointed at it, nodded to me, and went out hurriedly.  My first impulse was to hand it back—­then I thought better of it—­words do not come easily to him.  So he expressed himself in currency.  I put the money into my purse for a luck penny.

Mrs. Francis is as serene as a summer sea, and can look at you without knowing you are there.  Mr. Francis is a peaceful man, too.  He looks at his wife in a helpless way when she begins to explain the difference between the Elizabethan and the Victorian poets—­I don’t believe he cares a cent for either of them.

Mrs. Francis entertains quite a bit; I like it, too, and I do not go and cry into the sink because I have to wait on the guests.  She entertains well and is a delightful hostess, but some of the people whom she entertains do not appreciate her flights of fancy.

I do not like to see them wink at each other, although I know it is funny to hear Mrs. Francis elaborate on the mother’s influence in the home and the proper way to deal with selfishness in children; but she means well, and they should remember that, no matter how funny she gets.

April 18th.—­She gave me a surprise to-day.  She called me upstairs and read to me a paper she was preparing to read before some society—­she belongs to three or four—­ on the domestic help problem.  Well, it hadn’t very much to do with the domestic help problem, but of course I could not tell her that so when she asked me what I thought of it I said: 

“If all employers were as kind as you and Mr. Francis there would be no domestic help problem.”

She looked at me suddenly, and something seemed to strike her.  I believe it came to her that I was a creature of like passions with herself, capable of gratitude, perhaps in need of encouragement.  Hitherto I think she has regarded me as a porridge and coffee machine.