congratulated herself that she had accomplished a fine afternoon's
work.

There were whole seas of sewing to be waded through, Mrs. Williams
said, before she could have any spare afternoons. There was the
dressmaking, all her own dresses to be remodelled after the present
style, besides new ones (when Mrs. Williams had a dressmaker in the
house--to use her own words--she "almost worked herself to death")
then there was all the other sewing. It really was appalling to think
of the amount of ruffling and tucking and side-pleating and puffing
that must be gone through, before the summer wardrobes of herself
and her little daughters would be completed. There was the
house-cleaning, the smallest detail of which required her personal
supervision, for Mrs. Williams was elaborate throughout; all her
housekeeping was squared up to certain fine lines. If she ever had a
morsel of time from these things, stern necessity compelled her to
spend it in fancy work; for tidies, and soft pillows, and
bracket-covers, and stand-covers, and mats were indispensable. When
Mrs. Williams was asked to subscribe for "Woman's Work for Woman,"
she assured them that she knew already all about woman's work that
she desired to.

It was done at last--the spring sewing and the house cleaning, and
the summer heats had come. The day was warm, and Mrs. Williams, in a
cool white wrapper, had established herself on the parlour sofa with
a book. She had neglected to tell Bridget that she was not at home,
and just as she was in the most absorbing part of one of George
Eliot's absorbing novels, a caller was ushered in. "Mrs. Brown! that
missionary woman again! Was ever anyone so persecuted before?" Here
she had just come to a breathing spell, where she had hoped to take