"Oh yes, mum," answered the girl. "I've tried four times." Then she
added cheerfully, "I'll try again if you like, mum."

Amenda was the most willing servant we ever paid wages to.

Ethelbertha said she would step down and light the fire herself, and told
Amenda to follow her and watch how she did it. I felt interested in the
experiment, and followed also. Ethelbertha tucked up her frock and set
to work. Amenda and I stood around and looked on.

At the end of half an hour Ethelbertha retired from the contest, hot,
dirty, and a trifle irritable. The fireplace retained the same cold,
cynical expression with which it had greeted our entrance.

Then I tried. I honestly tried my best. I was eager and anxious to
succeed. For one reason, I wanted my breakfast. For another, I wanted
to be able to say that I had done this thing. It seemed to me that for
any human being to light a fire, laid as that fire was laid, would be a
feat to be proud of. To light a fire even under ordinary circumstances
is not too easy a task: to do so, handicapped by MacShaughnassy's rules,
would, I felt, be an achievement pleasant to look back upon. My idea,
had I succeeded, would have been to go round the neighbourhood and brag
about it.

However, I did not succeed. I lit various other things, including the
kitchen carpet and the cat, who would come sniffing about, but the
materials within the stove appeared to be fire-proof.

Ethelbertha and I sat down, one each side of our cheerless hearth, and
looked at one another, and thought of MacShaughnassy, until Amenda chimed