bright and warm, with music and books and papers, where they gathered
in the evening and strengthened the home ties.

No servant could long please Mrs. Murray, so the comers and goers to
that kitchen for many years were numerous. Now she had hit upon a new
plan. She could carry out some good old-fashioned notions she had
about training girls in domestic matters. She would do her own work
with such assistance as her daughters could give her out of school
hours, calling in such help as they needed. But the project did not
work well: the girls were always hurried; their school duties left
very little time for anything else, so their household tasks were not
always well or cheerfully performed, especially Margaret's. Her love
for music amounted to a passion, and she grudged the time for
practice; then their inexperience tried her mother's patience sadly,
and brought the inevitable scoldings, and made Margaret's irritable
nerves flash up to meet her mother's. But that Saturday morning that
we began to tell about, it was such a very exasperating one all
around. One thing after another happened to make things go wrong,
till it fairly seemed as if some evil genius had affairs under
control. The door opened and a sweet round face, framed by a sweeping
cap, appeared. A graceful young girl armed with broom and dustpan
stepped lightly across the kitchen, deposited her broom in the
corner, and proceeded to empty the contents of the pan in the fire.

"Florence," spoke her mother sharply, "what do you mean by putting
dust in the fire when you see this kettle of stewed cranberries on
the stove?"

Florence started guiltily, spilling some of the dust on the stove in
her agitation.