NEW NERVES.


"Margaret, do stop that horrid screeching! You make my head fairly
snap." The music suddenly ceased. The sharp voice came from the
pantry, and belonged to Margaret's mother, Mrs. Murray. She stood
before her moulding board weighing out chopped raisins, currants,
flour, butter, and all the other ingredients that go to make a
fruit-cake. The deep-cut frown between her eyes, the worried
expression, and the tightly-shut lips told their own story.

The singer stood at the kitchen-table washing the breakfast
dishes--a pretty picture, with her sixteen years just blossoming
into pink cheeks and bright eyes--a trim and dainty figure even in
her simple dark print and white apron. She looked so happy and
caroled forth her song so gaily, while she wiped the delicate china
cups on the soft towel. If her mother could but have seen her, would
she so rudely have jarred the bright spirit? And this was Margaret.
She, too, could frown; now the straight black brows drew themselves
together in an ugly way on the white forehead, the cheeks took a
deeper pink, and the bright eyes had a snap in them. She flung the
cups on the table in place of the almost loving touches she had
bestowed upon them. The clatter went on, and at last a luckless cup
reeled, and rolled to the very edge of the table, and--off it went!
shivering into many fragments. This brought Mrs. Murray to the pantry
door.