and, guessing why such wistful glances went from clock to
window, kindly shortened the task of table-cloth darning by doing
a good bit herself, before putting it into Merry’s hands.
She was a good and loving mother in spite of her strict ways, and
knew that it was better for her romantic daughter to be learning all
the housewifery lessons she could teach her, than to be reading
novels, writing verses, or philandering about with her head full of
girlish fancies, quite innocent in themselves, but not the stuff to
live on. So she wisely taught the hands that preferred to pick
flowers, trim up rooms and mould birds, to work well with needle,
broom, and rolling-pin; put a receipt-book before the eyes that
loved to laugh and weep over tender tales, and kept the young head
and heart safe and happy with wholesome duties, useful studies,
and such harmless pleasures as girls should love, instead of letting
them waste their freshness in vague longings, idle dreams, and
frivolous pastimes.
But it was often hard to thwart the docile child, and lately she had
seemed to be growing up so fast that her mother began to feel a
new sort of tenderness for this sweet daughter, who was almost
ready to take upon herself the cares, as well as triumphs and
delights, of maidenhood. Something in the droop of the brown
head, and the quick motion of the busy hand with a little burn on
it, made it difficult for Mrs. Grant to keep Merry at work that day,
and her eye watched the clock almost as impatiently as the girl’s,
for she liked to see the young face brighten when the hour of
release came.
“What next?” asked Merry, as the last stitch was set, and she
stifled a sigh on hearing the clock strike four, for the sun was
getting low, and the lovely afternoon going fast,
“One more job, if you are not too tired for it. I want the receipt for
diet drink Miss Dawes promised me; would you like to run down
and get it for me, dear?”
“Yes, mother!” and that answer was as blithe as a robin’s chirp, for
that was just where Merry wanted to go.
Away went thimble and scissors, and in five minutes away went
Merry, skipping down the hill without a care in the world, for a
happy heart sat singing within, and everything seemed full of
beauty.
She had a capital time with Molly, called on Jill, did her shopping
in the village, and had just turned to walk up the hill, when Ralph
Evans came tramping along behind her, looking so pleased and
proud about something that she could not help asking what it was,
for they were great friends, and Merry thought that to be an artist
was the most glorious career a man could choose.
“I know you’ve got some good news,” she said, looking up at him
as he touched his hat and fell into step with her, seeming more
contented than before.
“I have, and was just coming up to tell you, for I was sure you
would be glad. It is only a hope, a chance, but it is so splendid I
feel as if I must shout and dance, or fly over a fence or two, to let
off steam.”
“Do tell me, quick; have you got an order?” asked Merry, full of
interest at once, for artistic vicissitudes were very romantic, and
she liked to hear about them.
“I may go abroad in the autumn.”
“Oh, how lovely!”
“Isn’t it? David German is going to spend a year in Rome, to finish
a statue, and wants me to go along. Grandma is willing, as cousin
Maria wants her for a long visit, so everything looks promising and
I really think I may go.”
“Won’t it cost a great deal?” asked Merry, who, in spite of her little
elegancies, had a good deal of her thrifty mother’s common sense.
“Yes; and I’ve got to earn it. But I can–I know I can, for I’ve saved
some, and I shall work like ten beavers all summer. I won’t borrow
if I can help it, but I know someone who would lend me five