and another sound which was even more soothing. Putting back a
corner of the handkerchief to learn what it was, he saw Molly
sitting by the fire with Boo in her lap, rocking and humming as she
warmed his little bare feet, having learned to guard against croup
by attending to the damp shoes and socks before going to bed. Boo
lay with his round face turned up to hers, stroking her cheek while
the sleepy blue eyes blinked lovingly at her as she sang her lullaby
with a motherly patience sweet to see. They made a pretty little
picture, and Mr. Bemis looked at it with pleasure, having a leisure
moment in which to discover, as all parents do sooner or later, that
his children were growing up.
“Molly is getting to be quite a woman, and very like her mother,”
thought papa, wiping the eye that peeped, for he had been fond of
the pretty wife who died when Boo was born. “Sad loss to them,
poor things! But Miss Bat seems to have done well by them. Molly
is much improved, and the boy looks finely. She’s a good soul,
after all”; and Mr. Bemis began to think he had been hasty when
he half made up his mind to get a new housekeeper, feeling that
burnt steak, weak coffee, and ragged wristbands were sure signs
that Miss Bat’s days of usefulness were over.
Molly was singing the lullaby her mother used to sing to her, and
her father listened to it silently till Boo was carried away too
sleepy for anything but bed. When she came back she sat down to
her work, fancying her father still asleep. She had a crimson bow
at her throat and one on the newly braided hair, her cuffs were
clean, and a white apron hid the shabbiness of the old dress. She
looked like a thrifty little housewife as she sat with her basket
beside her full of neat white rolls, her spools set forth, and a new
pair of scissors shining on the table. There was a sort of charm in
watching the busy needle flash to and fro, the anxious pucker of
the forehead as she looked to see if the stitches were even, and the
expression of intense relief upon her face as she surveyed the
finished button-hole with girlish satisfaction. Her father was wide
awake and looking at her, thinking, as he did so,
“Really the old lady has worked well to change my tomboy into
that nice little girl: I wonder how she did it.” Then he gave a yawn,
pulled off the handkerchief, and said aloud, ‘What are you making,
Molly?” for it struck him that sewing was a new amusement.
“Shirts for Boo, sir. Four, and this is the last,” she answered, with
pardonable pride, as she held it up and nodded toward the pile in
her basket.
“Isn’t that a new notion? I thought Miss Bat did the sewing,” said
Mr. Bemis, as he smiled at the funny little garment, it looked so
like Boo himself.
“No, sir; only yours. I do mine and Boo’s. At least, I’m learning
how, and Mrs. Pecq says I get on nicely,” answered Molly,
threading her needle and making a knot in her most capable way.
“I suppose it is time you did learn, for you are getting to be a great
girl, and all women should know how to make and mend. You
must take a stitch for me now and then: Miss Bat’s eyes are not
what they were, I find”; and Mr. Bemis looked at his frayed
wristband, as if he particularly felt the need of a stitch just then.
“I’d love to, and I guess I could. I can mend gloves; Merry taught
me, so I’d better begin on them, if you have any,” said Molly, much
pleased at being able to do anything for her father, and still more
so at being asked.
“There’s something to start with”; and he threw her a pair, with
nearly every finger ripped.
Molly shook her head over them, but got out her gray silk and fell
to work, glad to show how well she could sew.