Mr. Bell ate until he was satisfied and betook himself to a comfortable
chair by the lamp, where he unfolded the smart local paper and lit his
pipe. "When you've got through with the dishes, Diantha," he said
coldly, "I'll hear about this proposition of yours."

Diantha cleared the table, lowered the leaves, set it back against the
wall, spreading the turkey-red cloth upon it. She washed the
dishes,--her kettle long since boiling, scalded them, wiped them, set
them in their places; washed out the towels, wiped the pan and hung it
up, swiftly, accurately, and with a quietness that would have seemed
incredible to any mistress of heavy-footed servants. Then with
heightened color and firm-set mouth, she took her place by the lamplit
table and sat still.

Her mother was patiently darning large socks with many holes--a kind of
work she specially disliked. "You'll have to get some new socks,
Father," she ventured, "these are pretty well gone."

"O they'll do a good while yet," he replied, not looking at them. "I
like your embroidery, my dear."

That pleased her. She did not like to embroider, but she did like to be
praised.

Diantha took some socks and set to work, red-checked and excited, but
silent yet. Her mother's needle trembled irregularly under and over,
and a tear or two slid down her cheeks.

Finally Mr. Bell laid down his finished paper and his emptied pipe and
said, "Now then. Out with it."