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days, running with her ears back and her eyes slits. “Stop for Molly!” Irmgard suddenly screamed, and she turned and threw up all over the man’s coat.
“Le matin du kidnap,”
Germaine begins softly. It is a good thing she is here to recall the event, because the truth is that Irmgard remembers nothing about that morning at all.
    Mrs. Queen is standing up beside the stove. She never sits down to eat, because she wants them to see how she hasn’t a minute to waste; she is on the alert every second. Mrs. Queen is not happy down at the lake. It is not what she expected by “a country place.” When she worked for Lady Partridge things were otherwise; you knew what to expect by “a country place.” Mrs. Queen came out to Canada with Lady Partridge. The wages were low, and she had no stomach for travel, but she was devoted to Lady P. and to Ty-Ty and Buffy, the two cairns. The cairns died, because of the change of air, and after Lady P. had buried them, she went out to her daughter in California, leaving Mrs. Queen to look after the graves. But Mrs. Queen has never taken to Canada. She can’t get used to it. She cannot get used to a place where the railway engines are that size and make that kind of noise, and where the working people are as tall as anyone else. When Mrs. Queen was interviewing Irmgard’s mother, to see if Irmgard’s mother would do, she said she had never taken to the place and couldn’t promise a thing. The fancy might take her any minute to turn straight around and go back to England. She had told Lady Partridge the same thing. “When was that, Mrs. Queen?” “In nineteen ten, in the spring.” She has never felt at home, and never wants to, and never will. If you ask her why she is unhappy, she says it is because of Ty-Ty and Buffy, the cairns; and because this is a paltry rented house and apaltry kitchen; and she is glad that Ty-Ty and Buffy are peacefully in their graves.
    The party last night kept Mrs. Queen awake. She had to get up out of her uncomfortable bed and let the collies out of the garage. They knew there was a party somewhere, and were barking like fools. She let them out, she says, and then spent some time on the gallery, looking in the living-room window. It was a hot, airless night. (She happens to have the only stuffy room in the house.) The party was singing “Little Joe.” Apparently, she did not see Mrs. Bloodworth dancing and falling down; at least she doesn’t mention it.
    Mrs. Queen is not going to clean up the mess in the living room. It is not her line of country. She is sick, sore, and weary. Germaine will, if asked, but just now she is braiding Irmgard’s hair. Eating toast, Irmgard leans comfortably against Germaine. They are perfectly comfortable with each other, but Mrs. Queen is crying over by the stove.
    I rmgard’s cousin Bradley went back to Boston yesterday. She should be missing him, but he has vanished, fallen out of summer like a stone. He got on the train covered with bits of tape and lotion, and with a patch on one eye. Bradley had a terrible summer. He got poison ivy, in July, before coming here. In August, he grew a sty, which became infected, and then he strained his right arm. “I don’t know what your mother will say,” Irmgard’s mother said. At this, after a whole summer of being without them, Bradley suddenly remembered he had a father and mother, and started to cry. Bradley is ten, but tall as eleven. He and Irmgard have the same look – healthy and stubborn, like well-fed, intelligent mice. Theyoften stare in the mirror, side by side, positively blown up with admiration. But Bradley is superior to Irmgard in every way. When you ask him what he wants to be, he says straight off, “A mechanical and electrical engineer,” whereas Irmgard is still hesitating between a veterinary and a nun.
    “Have you dropped Freddy now that Bradley is here?” It seems that she was asked that a number of times.
    “Oh, I still like Freddy, but