Jack and Jill by Louisa May Alcott

up from the cellar singing “Bounding Billows,” with a swashing

and scrubbing accompaniment which suggested that she was

actually enjoying a “life on the ocean wave.” Merry, in her neat

cap and apron, stood smiling over her work as she deftly rolled and

clipped, filled and covered, finding a certain sort of pleasure in

doing it well, and adding interest to it by crimping the crust,

making pretty devices with strips of paste and star-shaped

prickings of the fork.

“Good-will giveth skill,” says the proverb, and even particular Mrs.

Grant was satisfied when she paused to examine the pastry with

her experienced eye.

“You are a handy child and a credit to your bringing up, though I

do say it. Those are as pretty pies as I’d wish to eat, if they bake

well, and there’s no reason why they shouldn’t.”

“May I make some tarts or rabbits of these bits? The boys like

them, and I enjoy modelling this sort of thing,” said Merry, who

was trying to mould a bird, as she had seen Ralph do with clay to

amuse Jill while the bust was going on.

“No, dear; there’s no time for knick-knacks to-day. The beets ought

to be on this minute. Run and get ’em, and be sure you scrape the

carrots well.”

Poor Merry put away the delicate task she was just beginning to

like, and taking a pan went down cellar, wishing vegetables could

be grown without earth, for she hated to put her hands in dirty

water. A word of praise to Roxy made that grateful scrubber leave

her work to poke about in the root-cellar, choosing “sech as was

pretty much of a muchness, else they wouldn’t bile even”; so Merry

was spared that part of the job, and went up to scrape and wash

without complaint, since it was for father. She was repaid at noon

by the relish with which he enjoyed his dinner, for Merry tried to

make even a boiled dish pretty by arranging the beets, carrots,

turnips, and potatoes in contrasting colors, with the beef hidden

under the cabbage leaves.

“Now, I’ll rest and read for an hour, then I’ll rake my garden, or run

down town to see Molly and get some seeds,” she thought to

herself, as she put away the spoons and glasses, which she liked to

wash, that they might always be clear and bright.

“If you’ve done all your own mending, there’s a heap of socks to be

looked over. Then I’ll show you about darning the tablecloths. I do

hate to have a stitch of work left over till Monday,” said Mrs.

Grant, who never took naps, and prided herself on sitting down to

her needle at 3 P.M. every day.

“Yes, mother”; and Merry went slowly upstairs, feeling that a part

of Saturday ought to be a holiday after books and work all the

week. As she braided up her hair, her eye fell upon the reflection

of her own face in the glass. Not a happy nor a pretty one just then,

and Merry was so unaccustomed to seeing any other, that

involuntarily the frown smoothed itself out, the eyes lost their

weary look, the drooping lips curved into a smile, and, leaning her

elbows on the bureau, she shook her head at herself, saying, half

aloud, as she glanced at Ivanhoe lying near,

“You needn’t look so cross and ugly just because you can’t have

what you want. Sweeping, baking, and darning are not so bad as

being plagued with lovers and carried off and burnt at the stake, so

I won’t envy poor Rebecca her jewels and curls and romantic

times, but make the best of my own.”

Then she laughed, and the bright face came back into the mirror,

looking like an old friend, and Merry went on dressing with care,

for she took pleasure in her own little charms, and felt a sense of

comfort in knowing that she could always have one pretty thing to

look at if she kept her own face serene and sweet. It certainly

looked so as it bent over the pile of big socks half an hour later,

and brightened with each that was laid aside. Her mother saw it,