Two of our house servants were more or less permanent; that is, they
had been with us since we opened the house, and were as content as
restless spirits can be. These were the housekeeper and the cook,--the
hub of the house. The former is a Norwegian, tall, angular, and capable,
with a knot of yellow hair at the back of her head,--ostensibly for
sticking lead pencils into,--and a disposition to keep things snug and
clean. Her duties include the general supervision of both houses and the
special charge of store-rooms, food cellars, and table supplies of all
sorts. She is efficient, she whistles while she works, and I see but
little of her. I suspect that Polly knows her well.
The cook, Mary, is small, Irish, gray, with the temper of a pepper-pod
and the voice of a guinea-hen suffering from bronchitis, but she can
cook like an angel. She is an artist, and I feel as if the
seven-dollar-a-week stipend were but a "tip" to her, and that sometime
she will present me with a bill for her services. My safeguard, and one
that I cherish, is an angry word from her to the housekeeper.
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