the table shovelling in pork and beans with their knives, drinking
tea from their saucers, and laughing out with a hearty “Haw, haw,”
when anything amused them. Yet the boys were handsome, strong
specimens, the farmer a hale, benevolent-looking man, the
housewife a pleasant, sharp-eyed matron, who seemed to find
comfort in looking often at the bright face at her elbow, with the
broad forehead, clear eyes, sweet mouth, and quiet voice that came
like music in among the loud masculine ones, or the quick,
nervous tones of a woman always in a hurry.
Merry’s face was so thoughtful that evening that her father
observed it, for, when at home, he watched her as one watches a
kitten, glad to see anything so pretty, young, and happy, at its play.
“Little daughter has got something on her mind, I mistrust. Come
and tell father all about it,” he said, with a sounding slap on his
broad knee as he turned his chair from the table to the ugly stove,
where three pairs of wet boots steamed underneath, and a great
kettle of cider apple-sauce simmered above.
“When I’ve helped clear up, I’ll come and talk. Now, mother, you
sit down and rest; Roxy and I can do everything,” answered Merry,
patting the old rocking-chair so invitingly that the tired woman
could not resist, especially as watching the kettle gave her an
excuse for obeying.
“Well, I don’t care if I’d o, for I’ve been on my feet since five
o’clock. Be sure you cover things up, and shut the buttery door, and
put the cat down cellar, and sift your meal. I’ll see to the
buckwheats last thing before I go to bed.”
Mrs. Grant subsided with her knitting, for her hands were never
idle; Tom tilted his chair back against the wall and picked his teeth
with his pen-knife; Dick got out a little pot of grease, to make the
boots water-tight; and Harry sat down at the small table to look
over his accounts, with an important air–for everyone occupied
this room, and the work was done in the out-kitchen behind.
Merry hated clearing up, but dutifully did every distasteful task,
and kept her eye on careless Roxy till all was in order; then she
gladly went to perch on her father’s knee, seeing in all the faces
about her the silent welcome they always wore for the “little one.
“Yes, I do want something, but I know you will say it is silly,” she
began, as her father pinched her blooming cheek, with the wish
that his peaches would ever look half as well.
“Shouldn’t wonder if it was a doll now”; and Mr. Grant stroked her
head with an indulgent smile, as if she was about six instead of
fifteen.
“Why, father, you know I don’t! I haven’t played with dollies for
years and years. No; I want to fix up my room pretty, like Jill’s. I’ll
do it all myself, and only want a few things, for I don’t expect it to
look as nice as hers.”
Indignation gave Merry courage to state her wishes boldly, though
she knew the boys would laugh. They did, and her mother said in a
tone of surprise,
“Why, child, what more can you want? I’m sure your room is
always as neat as a new pin, thanks to your bringing up, and I told
you to have a fire there whenever you wanted to.”
“Let me have some old things out of the garret, and I’ll show you
what I want. It is neat, but so bare and ugly I hate to be there. I do
so love something pretty to look at!” and Merry gave a little shiver
of disgust as she turned her eyes away from the large greasy boot
Dick was holding up to be sure it was well lubricated all round.
“So do I, and that’s a fact. I couldn’t get on without my pretty girl
here, anyway. Why, she touches up the old place better than a
dozen flower-pots in full blow,” said the farmer, as his eye went
from the scarlet geranium to the bright young face so near his own.
“I wish I had a dozen in the sitting-room window. Mother says they