the Norberrys painting pillows,--and I could scream!"

"Things will take a turn for the better some day, Margaret," said the
other woman, soothingly; "and as time goes on you'll find yourself
getting more and more pleasure out of your work, as I do. Why, I've
never been so securely happy in my life as I am now. You'll feel
differently some day."

"Maybe," Margaret assented unenthusiastically. There was a pause.
Perhaps the girl was thinking that to teach school, live in a plain
little cottage on the unfashionable Bridge Road, take two roomers,
and cook and sew and plan for Tom and little Emily, as Mrs. Porter
did, was not quite an ideal existence.

"You're an angel, anyway, Emily," said she, affectionately, a little
shamefacedly. "Don't mind my growling. I don't do it very often. But
I look about at other people, and then realize how my mother's slaved
for twenty years and how my father's been tied down, and I've come
to the conclusion that while there may have been a time when a woman
could keep a house, tend a garden, sew and spin and raise twelve
children, things are different now; life is more complicated. You
owe your husband something, you owe yourself something. I want to get
on, to study and travel, to be a companion to my husband. I don't want
to be a mere upper servant!"

"No, of course not," assented Mrs. Porter, vaguely, soothingly.

"Well, if we are going to stay here, I'll light the stove," Margaret
said after a pause. "B-r-r-r! this room gets cold with the windows
open! I wonder why Kelly doesn't bring us more wood?"