"eh? yes? what is it?"

wade sat up in bed and stared stupidly about him. in heaven's name where was he? and what was the noise that had awakened him? there it was again!

rat, tat, tat, tat!

was he still asleep? what was this room? the stove looked dimly familiar, and there were his clothes over the back of a green rep rocker. but where—then memory routed sleep and he sank back onto the pillow with a sigh of relief. it was all right. he remembered now. he was in his own cottage in eden village, he had had a fine long sleep and felt ready for—

rat, tat, tat, tat—tat!

"hello! what is it? who is it? why in thunder don't you—"

"please, sir, it's me."

the reply came faintly through the dining room. some one was knocking at the kitchen door. the apologetic tones sounded feminine, however, and wade was in no costume to receive lady visitors. he looked desperately around for his dressing-gown and remembered that it was in his trunk and that his trunk still reposed in the porter's room of a boston hotel.

"who—who is 'me'?" he called.

"zephania."

zephania! who in thunder was zephania?

"i'm very sorry, miss zephania, but i'm not dressed yet. if you wouldn't mind calling again in, say, half an hour—"

"please, sir, i'll wait."

"oh, well—er—was there something you wanted?"

"please, sir, i've come to do for you."

to do for him! wade clasped his knees with his arms and frowned perplexedly at the big stove. it was distinctly threatening. he wondered how she intended to accomplish her awful purpose. perhaps she had stopped in the woodshed and secured the axe. to do for him! then he laughed and sprang out of bed. it was zenas prout's girl, and she had come to get his breakfast.

"zephania!" he called.

"yes, sir?" it sounded as though she were sitting on the back doorstep.

"the door is unlocked. come in. you'll find things to eat on the table and things to cook with in the closets. i'll be dressed in a few minutes."

he heard the door open as he closed his own portal, and in a moment a stove-lid fell clanging to the floor. after that zephania's presence in the house was never for a moment in doubt. rattle-bang went the poker, clicketty-click went the shaker, and triumphant over all rose zephania's shrill young voice:

"'o beulah land, sweet beulah land,

as on thy highest mount i stand;

i look away across the sea,

where mansions are prepared for me.'"

"she has a cheerful presence," muttered wade. "i wonder if she does that all the time."

but zephania's vocal efforts were forgotten for the moment in the annoying discovery that he had neglected to provide washing accommodations. he had intended using the kitchen sink for ablutions, but with zephania in possession of that apartment it was out of the question. it was evident that if he meant to wash in the kitchen he would have to get up earlier. what time of day was it, anyhow? he looked at his watch and whistled.

"twenty minutes of seven!" he ejaculated. "this won't do. i guess i'd better get my own breakfasts. if there's one thing a chap wants to do in vacation it's sleep late."

he raised the shades and flung open the front windows. on the lilac hedge a bird was poised singing his heart out. wade watched him in admiration and wondered what kind of a bird he was. to wade a bird was a bird as long as it was neither a buzzard nor a crow.

"you're not a buzzard," he told the songster, "nor a crow. you have a gray breast and brown body and a black cap on your head. wonder who you are. guess you're a sparrow. i believe i'll get a book telling about birds. they're interesting little devils. look at him put his head back! just as though he meant to crack things wide open. by jove! i have it! your name's zephania!"

a baker's cart ambled by beyond the hedge, the driver leaning around the corner of the vehicle to regard the cottage curiously. out on the common a bay horse, his halter-rope dragging under his feet, cropped the lush grass.

"you're happy," murmured wade. "the bird's happy. zephania's happy. this must be a happy village." he pondered a moment, gazing contentedly about the cosy sunlit room. then, "and i'm happy myself," he added with conviction. and to prove it he began to whistle merrily while he finished dressing. presently there was a knock on the dining-room door.

"yes?" responded wade.

"please, sir, what will you have for breakfast?" being by this time decently dressed, wade opened the door.

"hello!" he said.

"good morning," answered zephania.

if he had not been informed that her age was fifteen wade would have supposed zephania's years to be not over a baker's dozen. she was a round-faced, smiling-visaged, black-haired, black-eyed, ruddy-cheeked little mite who simply oozed cheerfulness and energy. she wore a shapeless pink cotton dress which reached almost to her ankles, and over that a blue-checked apron which nearly trailed on the floor. her sleeves were rolled elbow-high and one little thin hand clutched a dish-cloth as a badge of office. wade stared dubiously at zephania and zephania smiled brightly back.

"look here, my child," said wade, "how old are you, anyway?"

"fifteen in march, sir."

"next march?"

"no, sir, last."

"you don't look it."

"no, sir, folks say i'm small for my age," agreed zephania, cheerfully.

"i agree with them. do you think you're strong enough to do the work here?"

"oh, yes, sir. this is a very easy house to look after."

"well," said wade, hesitatingly, "you can have a try at it, but it seems to me you're too young to be doing housework."

"i've always done it," replied zephania, beamingly. "what'll you have for breakfast, sir?"

"coffee—can you make coffee?"

"yes, sir, three ways."

"well, one way will do," said wade, hurriedly. "and you'll find some eggs there, i believe, and some bread. you might fry the eggs and toast the bread. i guess that will do for this morning."

"yes, sir, thank you," answered zephania, politely. "wouldn't you rather have the eggs poached?"

"er—why, yes, if you can do it."

"i can cook eggs eleven ways," said zephania, proudly. "are you going to eat breakfast in here or in there?" she nodded past wade at the sitting-room.

"well, what do you think?"

"it's sunnier in there, sir. i could just clear the end of that table. there's a fine big tray, sir."

"an excellent idea," replied wade. "i place myself—and my house—in your hands, zephania."

"thank you, sir," said zephania.

breakfast was prepared that morning to the strains of "jesus, lover of my soul." wade went out to the kitchen presently to wash hands and face at the sink and dry them on a roller towel, which zephania whisked before him as if by magic. watching her for a minute or two dispelled all doubts as to her ability. the way in which she broke the eggs and slipped them into the boiling water was a revelation of dexterity. and all the while she sang on uninterruptedly, joyously, like the gray-breast on the hedge. wade went out into the garden and breathed in deep breaths of the cool, moist air. the grass and the shrubs were heavy with dew and the morning world was redolent of the perfume exhaled from moist earth and growing things. in the neglected orchard the birds were chattering and piping, and from a nearby field came the excited cawing of crows. it was corn-planting time.

wade ate his breakfast by the open window. he didn't know in which of the three ways zephania had prepared his coffee, but it was excellent, and even the condensed milk couldn't spoil it. the eggs were snowy cushions of delight on golden tablets of toast, and the butter was hued like old ivory. zephania objected to condensed milk, however, and suggested that she be allowed to bring a quart of "real milk" with her when she came in the mornings.

"of course, you won't need a whole quart, unless you drink it, but, if you like cream in your coffee, it'll be a great deal heavier from a quart than from a pint. we get six cents for milk."

"by all means, let us have a quart," replied wade, recklessly. "such good coffee as this, zephania, deserves the best cream to be had." zephania blushed with pleasure and beamed down upon him radiantly.

"and maybe, sir, you'd like me to make you some bread?"

"i would. i was about to broach the subject," was the mendacious answer. "could you do it?"

"yes, indeed. why, when they had the church fair over to the center last winter i sent four loaves, and mrs. whitely, that's the minister's wife, sir, said it was just as good as any there."

"i want to know!" said wade, unconsciously falling into local idiom.

"yes, sir. i can make two kinds of bread. i'll make the milk bread first, though, and let you try that. most folks likes milk bread the best. shall i set some to-night?"

"set some? oh, yes, please do."

while she was removing the tray zephania asked: "which room would you like to have me clean first, sir?"

"well, i suppose we ought to clean the whole place up, hadn't we?"

"oh, yes, sir! everything's just covered with dust. i never did see such a dirty house. houses do get that way, though, if they're shut up for a long time. maybe i'd just better begin at the top and work down?"

"that seems sensible," said wade. "you could just sort of sweep the dirt down the front stairs and right out of the front door, couldn't you?"

"oh, no, sir," replied zephania, with a shocked, pitying expression. "i'd never do that. i'd clean each room separately, sir; sweep and wash up the floors and around the mop-board and—"

"whatever way you think best," interrupted wade. "i leave it all to you, zephania, and i'm sure it will be done beautifully."

"thank you, sir. mother says i'm a real smart cleaner. shall i get some more flowers in this vase, sir? this piece of lilac's dreadfully wilted."

"no, zephania, just let that remain, please. the fact, is, that—that's a rather particular piece of lilac; something out of the common."

"out of the common?" echoed zephania, in faint surprise, surveying as much of the common as she could see through the window. "you don't mean our common?"

"no," answered wade, gravely, "not our common. that piece of lilac, zephania, is a clue; at least, i think it is. do you know what a clue is?"

"yes, sir. it's something you find that puts you on the trail of the murderer." zephania eyed the lilac interestedly.

"well, something of that sort. only in this case there isn't any murderer."

"a thief?" asked zephania, eagerly and hopefully.

"not even a thief," laughed wade. "just—just somebody i want very much to find. i suppose, zephania, you know about every one in the village, don't you?"

"pretty nearly, i guess."

"good. now suppose you tell me something about my neighbors. every one ought to know about his neighbors, eh?"

"yes, sir. after you've been here some time, though, you'll know all about them."

"yes, but the trouble is i don't want to wait that long. now, for instance, who lives over there on my left; the square white house with the drab blinds?"

"miss cousins, sir. she's a maiden lady and has a great deal of money. they say she owns some of the railroad. she plays the organ in church, and—"

"youngish, is she, with sort of wavy brown hair and—"

"no, sir," zephania tittered, "miss cousins is kind of old and has real gray hair."

"really? on my other side, then, who's my neighbor there? or haven't i one?"

"oh, yes, sir," answered zephania, eagerly. "that's the walton house, and that's—"

"the—what?" asked wade, sitting up very suddenly in the green rep rocker.

"the walton house, sir."

"oh! hum! and—er—who lives there, zephania?"

"miss walton and miss mullett."

"what's this miss—miss walton like? is she rather stout with quite black hair, zephania?"

"oh, no, mr. herring! i guess you saw mrs. sampson, the dressmaker. she lives over there across the common, in the little yellowish house with the vines; see?"

"yes, yes, i see. that's where miss sampson lives, eh? well, well! but we were speaking about miss walton, weren't we?"

"yes, sir. miss walton's a young lady and as pretty as—as—" zephania's words failed her and she looked about apparently in search of a simile.

"now let's see what you call pretty," said wade. "what color is her hair?"

"it's brown."

"oh, well, brown hair isn't uncommon."

"no, sir, but hers is kind of wavy and light and i don't believe she ever has to curl it."

"you don't tell me! and her eyes, now? i suppose they're brown too?"

"blue, sir. she has beautiful eyes, mr. herring, just heavenly! sometimes i think i'd just give almost anything if my eyes were like hers."

"really? but you seem to have a very good pair of your own. don't trouble you, do they?"

"they're black," said zephania, cheerfully. "black eyes aren't pretty."

"oh, i wouldn't go as far as that," murmured wade, politely.

"no, sir, but miss walton's are just as blue as—as the sky up there between those two little white clouds. she's awfully pretty, mr. herring."

"complexion dark, i suppose."

"no, sir, not dark at all. it's real light. some folks say she's too pale, but i don't think so. and sometimes she has just lots of pink in her cheeks, like—like a doll i have at home. folks that think she's too pale ought to have seen her yesterday afternoon."

"why is that?'"

"'cause she was just pink all over," answered zephania. "i took some eggs up to her house and just when i was coming out she came up on the porch. she looked like; she'd been running and her face was just as pink as—as that lamp-mat!"

the object in question was an excruciating magenta, but wade let it pass.

"yesterday was rather a warm day for running, too," observed wade.

"yes, sir, and i don't see what made her run, because she had been in the garden. maybe a bee or a wasp—"

"how did you know she had been in the garden?"

"why, 'cause she came from there. she hadn't ought to run like that in hot weather, and i told her so. i said 'miss eve'—what, sir?"

"nothing," answered wade, poking industriously at the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. "you were saying—"

"i just told her, 'miss eve, you hadn't ought to overheat yourself like that, 'cause if you do you'll have a sunstroke.' there was a man over at the center last summer who—"

"and what did she say?" asked wade.

"she said she'd remember and not do it again. and then miss mullett came out and i went home."

"who's miss mullett, zephania?"

"she's miss walton's friend. they live there together in the walton house every summer. folks say miss mullett's very poor and miss walton looks after her."

"young, is she?"

"not so very. she's kind of middle-aged, i guess. she's real pleasant. miss walton thinks a lot of her."

"and they're here only in the summer?"

"yes, sir. they come in june and stay until september. this is the third summer they've been here. before that the house was empty for a long, long time; just like this one."

"very interesting, zephania. thank you. now don't let me keep you from your labors any longer."

"no, sir, but don't you want to hear about any one else?"

"another time, thanks. we'll do it by degrees. if you tell me too much at once i shan't be able to remember it, you see."

"all right," answered zephania, cheerfully. "now i'll wash up the dishes."

after she had gone wade sat for a long while in the green rep rocker, his eyes on the spray of lilac on the table and his unlighted pipe dangling from his mouth. from the kitchen came a loud clatter of dishes and pans and zephania's voice raised in song:

"'we shall sleep, but not forever,

there will be a glorious dawn;

we shall meet to part, no, never,

on the resurrection morn!'"