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"Come on out, Jefferson. You're getting yourself filthy under there and there's no point in hiding," I coaxed.

"I don't wanna," he said. "I don't want Mrs. Boston to leave," he added quickly.

"Neither do I, but she has. I'm going in to speak to Aunt Bet about it right now," I added. He looked up hopefully.

"Will Mrs. Boston come back?"

"Maybe," I said. "Come on, Jefferson." I reached in and he took my hand and crawled out, but he had gotten the knees and seat of his pants black with dirt, as well as his elbows. I brushed him off the best I could and then we went inside. Aunt Bet was in the kitchen, banging pots and pans as she took everything out of the closets and cabinets. I went to the doorway and looked in at her. She wore plastic gloves and apron over her dress. She had her hair tied under a thick bandanna.

"Aunt Bet," I said and she stopped to turn around.

"What is it?"

"How could you fire Mrs. Boston?" I demanded. "What right- did you have to do that?" My voice took on the steely edge of a razor.

"How could . . . what right did I have?" she stuttered. Her eyes turned crystal-hard and cold. "Are you blind? Look at this place. You wouldn't believe the dirt and grease, the dust and grime I'm discovering in these closets and cabinets. Everything has to be washed down with disinfectant. I don't think it's ever been done. I'm taking charge of this myself before we hire a new servant. I'm going to reline every closet, every shelf and sterilize all the dishes and silverware."

"That's not true! Mrs. Boston was always very clean. We love Mrs. Boston. She's been with us . . . forever. You've got to send for her to return," I insisted.

"Send for her return?" She laughed her thin laugh as if I had suggested the most ridiculous thing. "Please." Then her eyes fell on Jefferson and her face went into a contortion of disgust. She stood up quickly and came across the room in a rage.

"What has he been doing? How did he get so filthy? Why did you bring him into the house like this? Look at his feet. I told you two to always take off your shoes before you come inside the house. Don't you know that germs stick to the bottoms of our feet? Don't you realize the twins are sick upstairs and their resistance is low? Quickly," she said, seizing Jefferson at the right elbow, "strip off these filthy things and pile them in that corner," she pointed.

Jefferson wailed and struggled to pull out of her grasp, but in her rage and intensity, she had great strength for a woman of her size. Her bony fingers locked around his small arm like an iron vise. Jefferson fell to the floor, kicking and screaming.

"Let him be!" I screamed.

"Then take him into the downstairs bathroom and clean him up," she ordered, her eyes blazing, her mouth twisted. "Don't dare bring him upstairs like this. I don't believe the extra work you've made for me. Now I've got to go back over the entry way and the floors." She bent down and ripped Jefferson's shoes off his feet quickly. "Go on," she commanded.

"Come on, Jefferson," I said. "She's gone mad." I pulled him to me, lifted him into my arms and hurried out of the kitchen.

"Take him directly into the bathroom!" she called behind us, but I didn't listen to her. I went up the stairs quickly and took him into my room, slamming the door behind me. There, I caught my breath. Jefferson was gasping from his deep wails.

"It's all right, Jefferson," I said. "She won't hurt you. I'll give you a warm bath. Afterward, I'll speak to Uncle Philip," I promised.

He ground his small fists into his eyes and dried the last few tears. His face was streaked with dirt and grime, and he didn't put up any resistance to taking the bath. Grief, sadness and fear had combined to overwhelm him and turn him into a clinging baby. How different he was from the little boy who couldn't wait to burst into my room every morning and from the little boy who was rarely depressed and unhappy. Seeing him this way made me even angrier. I didn't have time to feel sorry for myself any longer. I was determined to see to it that he didn't suffer any more pain. I told him to take a nap and I went out to look for Uncle Philip.

Aunt Bet had scrubbed the entry way, just as she promised, and now had sheets of newspaper over it. I walked over them and hurried out. But just as I started down the front steps, Uncle Philip drove up.

"Aunt Bet's fired Mrs. Boston!" I cried when he stepped out of his car. "And she's being terribly mean to Jefferson and me."

"What's this? Mean to you?" he said, coming around the car. "Oh no, Christie. She wouldn't want to be mean to you," he said. He put his arm around my shoulders. "She's just nervous and upset about the twins being sick. She always gets this way when they're ill."

"She's fired Mrs. Boston," I wailed. "And Mrs. Boston's gone."

"Well, maybe it's for the best for now. Aunt Betty is the mistress of the house and the servants have to get along with her. Mrs. Boston was set in her ways after all these years. She should have retired years ago anyway," he replied.

"Mrs. Boston is not old and she's not set in her ways. She was part of my family," I insisted.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But if Aunt Betty isn't happy and Mrs. Boston isn't happy, what good is it to continue this way? It's for the best, believe me," he repeated and smiled.

"No it isn't," I said, pulling away from him. "She's making things even harder than they are!" I cried. "Jefferson and I are not coming out of my room until she apologizes for screaming at him and frightening him to death."

I charged back into the house ahead of him and returned to my bedroom. Jefferson had already drifted into a nap from his emotional exhaustion. I sat staring at him, at his little face shut tight in sleep. Every once in a while, he moaned. Probably from a bad dream about Aunt Bet, I thought angrily. A little over an hour later, there was a small knock on my door.

"Come in," I said and Uncle Philip opened the door. He was carrying a tray with two bowls of soup, two sandwiches and two glasses of milk.