"I should think yer ma would want you in of a morning, or Miss Sophia
would be learning you yer lessons. When I was your age--But"--sadly--"it
stands to reason yer ma, having so many, and the servant gone, and the
cows comin' in so fast these days one after t'other, that they can't
learn you much of anything reg'lar."

Winifred acquiesced politely. She was quite conscious of the
shortcomings in the system of home education as it was being applied to
her in those days; no critic so keen in these matters as the pupil of
fourteen!

"Well now, it's a pity," said the housekeeper, sincerely, "and they do
say yer ma does deplorable bad cooking, and yer sisters that's older
than you aren't great hands at learning." The housekeeper sat down on a
grave near the paling, as if too discouraged at the picture she had
drawn to have energy to stand longer.

Winifred looked at the tanager, at the housekeeper, and round her at the
happy morning. This sad-eyed, angular woman always seemed to her more
like a creature out of a solemn story, or out of a stained-glass window,
than an ordinary person whose comments could be offensive. They had
talked together before, and each in her own way took a serious interest
in the other.

"Sister Sophia has learned to cook very nicely," said the child, but not
cheerfully. It never seemed to her quite polite to be cheerful when she
was talking to Mrs. Martha.

"Yes, child; but she can't do everything"--with a sigh--"she's put upon