It was half-past six o’clock, and the usual hour for dinner.  At 8.10 dinner was served.  The intervening time was consumed by Jane and Ellen endeavoring to settle their differences by the silent, sniffy method—­that is, Jane would sniff, and Ellen would be silent; and then Ellen would sniff, and Jane would be silent.  As for Thaddeus and Bessie, they were amused rather than angry to have the dear little broiled chicken Bessie had provided served on the large beef-platter; and when the pease came up in a cut-glass salad-dish, Thaddeus laughed outright, but Bessie’s eyes grew moist.  It was too evident that Jane and Ellen were not on speaking terms, and there was strong need for some one to break the ice.  Fortunately, Bessie’s mother called that evening, and some of her time was spent below-stairs.  What she said there only Ellen and Jane knew, but it had its effect, and for two or three weeks the jewels worked almost as satisfactorily as did Norah, the new girl, and quite harmoniously.

“Bessie,” said Thaddeus, one night as they ate their supper, “does it occur to you that the roast is a little overdone to-night?”

“Yes, Teddy, it is very much overdone.  I must speak to Ellen about it.  She is a little careless about some things.  I’ve told her several times that you like your beef rare.”

“Well, I’d tell her again.  Constant dropping of water on its surface will wear away a stone, and I think, perhaps, the constant dropping of an idea on a cook’s head may wear away some of the thickest parts of that—­at least, until it is worn thin enough for the idea to get through to where her brain ought to be.  You might say to her, too, that for several nights past dinner has been cold.”

“I’ll speak to her in the morning,” was Bessie’s reply; and the dear little woman was true to her purpose.

“She explained about the beef and the cold dinner, Ted,” she said, when Thaddeus came home that afternoon.

“Satisfactorily to all hands, I hope?” said Thaddeus, with his usual smile.

“Yes, perfectly.  In fact, I wonder we hadn’t thought of it ourselves.  In the old home, you know, the dinner-hour was six o’clock, while here it is half-past six.”

“What has that got to do with it?” asked Thaddeus.

“How obtuse of you, Teddy!” exclaimed Bessie.  “Don’t you see, the poor old thing has been so used to six-o’clock dinners that she has everything ready for us at six?  And if we are half an hour late, of course things get cold; or if they are kept in the oven, as was the case with the beef last night, they are apt to be overdone?”

“Why, of course.  Ha!  Ha!  Wonder I didn’t think of that,” laughed Thaddeus, though his mirth did seem a little forced.  “But—­she’s—­ she’s going to change, I suppose?”

“She said she’d try,” Bessie replied.  “She was really so very nice about it, I hadn’t the heart to scold her.”

“I’m glad,” was all Thaddeus said, and during the rest of the meal he was silent.  Once or twice he seemed on the verge of saying something, but apparently changed his mind.