It was Saturday--that busiest day in the seven; at least for
housekeepers--and as late as half past seven o'clock, yet the house
felt as cold as a barn. I stepped to the register to ascertain if
the fire had been made in the heater. Against my hand came a
pressure of air--cold air.

"Too bad!" I murmured fretfully, "that girl has never touched the
fire."

So I gave the bell a pretty vigorous jerk. In a few minutes up came
Nancy, the cook, in answer to my summons.

"Why hasn't Biddy made the fire in the heater?" I asked.

"She has made it, mum."

"There isn't a particle of heat coming up."

"I heard her at work down there. I guess she's made it up, but it
hasn't began to burn good yet."

"Tell her that I want her."

"She's washing the pavement, mum."

"Washing the pavement!"

"Yes, mum."