“Am I really the least bit like that good Lucinda? I tried to be, but I
didn’t think I was,” asked Jill softly.
“You are very like her in all ways but one. She did not get well,
and you will.”
A short answer, but it satisfied Jill to her heart’s core, and that
night, when she lay in bed, she thought to herself: “How curious it
is that I’ve been a sort of missionary without knowing it! They all
love and thank me, and won’t let me go, so I suppose I must have
done something, but I don’t know what, except trying to be good
and pleasant.”
That was the secret, and Jill found it out just when it was most
grateful as a reward for past efforts, most helpful as an
encouragement toward the constant well-doing which can make
even a little girl a joy and comfort to all who know and love her.
Chapter 16 Up at Merry’s
“Now fly round, child, and get your sweeping done up smart and
early.”
“Yes, mother.”
“I shall want you to help me about the baking, by and by.”
“Yes, mother.”
“Roxy is cleaning the cellar-closets, so you’ll have to get the
vegetables ready for dinner. Father wants a boiled dish, and I shall
be so busy I can’t see to it.”
“Yes, mother.”
A cheerful voice gave the three answers, but it cost Merry an effort
to keep it so, for she had certain little plans of her own which
made the work before her unusually distasteful. Saturday always
was a trying day, for, though she liked to see rooms in order, she
hated to sweep, as no speck escaped Mrs. Grant’s eye, and only the
good old-fashioned broom, wielded by a pair of strong arms, was
allowed. Baking was another trial: she loved good bread and
delicate pastry, but did not enjoy burning her face over a hot stove,
daubing her hands with dough, or spending hours rolling out
cookies for the boys; while a “boiled dinner” was her especial
horror, as it was not elegant, and the washing of vegetables was a
job she always shirked when she could.
However, having made up her mind to do her work without
complaint, she ran upstairs to put on her dust-cap, trying to look as
if sweeping was the joy of her life.
“It is such a lovely day, I’d id want to rake my garden, and have a
walk with Molly, and finish my book so I can get another,” she
said with a sigh, as she leaned out of the open window for a breath
of the unusually mild air.
Down in the ten-acre lot the boys were carting and spreading loam;
out in the barn her father was getting his plows ready; over the hill
rose the smoke of the distant factory, and the river that turned the
wheels was gliding through the meadows, where soon the
blackbirds would be singing. Old Bess pawed the ground, eager to
be off; the gray hens were scratching busily all about the yard;
even the green things in the garden were pushing through the
brown earth, softened by April rains, and there was a shimmer of
sunshine over the wide landscape that made every familiar object
beautiful with hints of spring, and the activity it brings.
Something made the old nursery hymn come into Merry’s head,
and humming to herself,
“In works of labor or of skill
I would be busy too,”
she tied on her cap, shouldered her broom, and fell to work so
energetically that she soon swept her way through the chambers,
down the front stairs to the parlor door, leaving freshness and
order behind her as she went.
She always groaned when she entered that apartment, and got out
of it again as soon as possible, for it was, like most country
parlors, a prim and chilly place, with little beauty and no comfort.
Black horse-hair furniture, very slippery and hard, stood against
the wall; the table had its gift books, albums, worsted mat and ugly
lamp; the mantel-piece its china vases, pink shells, and clock that
never went; the gay carpet was kept distressingly bright by closed