She laid her doll under a towel, but, with a furtive look at the boy,
rolled it in a cloth and tucked it under her skirt at the waist-line.
She then washed the children's faces, tied on their calico bibs, and
pushed them up to the pine table. While they battered the board and
each other with spoons and tin mugs, she went automatically to a
closet, took a dish of cold porridge and turned it into three bowls,
poured milk over it, spread three thick slices of wheat bread with
molasses from a cup, and sat down at the table. After the simple
repast was over, she led the still reluctant (constitutionally
reluctant) twins up the staircase and put them, shrieking, on a bed;
left the room, locking the door behind her in a perfunctory sort of
way as if it were an everyday occurrence, crouched down on the rug
outside, and, leaning her head back against the wall, took her doll
from under her skirt, for this was her playtime, her hour of ease.

Poor little 'Marm Lisa,' as the neighbours called her! She had all
the sorrows and cares of maternity with none of its compensating
joys.



CHAPTER II--MISTRESS MARY'S GARDEN



'"Mistress Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?"
"With silver bells and cockle shells,
And little maids all in a row."'