The Old Gray Homestead | Page 7

the
shed-door half off its hinges, and the unpiled wood tossed carelessly
inside the shed. He reddened, as much at the scorn in her gesture as at
the words themselves, and answered angrily, as many persons do when
they are ashamed:
"That's very true; but when you work just as hard as you can, anyway,
you haven't much spirit left over for the frills."
"Excuse me; I didn't realize they were frills. No business man would
have his office in an untidy condition, because it wouldn't pay; I
shouldn't think it would pay on a farm either. Just as it seems to
me--though, of course, I'm not in a position to judge--that if you sold
all those tubercular grade cows, and bought a few good cattle, and kept
them clean and fed them well, you'd get more milk, pay less for grain,
and not have to work so hard looking after more animals than you can
really handle well."
As she spoke, she began to unfasten her long, frilled, black sleeves, and
rose with a smile so winning that it entirely robbed her speech of
sharpness.
"Let's go to work," she said, "and see how much we could do in the
way of making things look better before the others get home from
church. We'll start here. Hand me that broom and I'll sweep while you
stack up the milk-pails--don't stop to reason with me about it--that'll
only use up time. If there's any hot water on the kitchen stove and you
know where the mop is, I'll wash this porch as well as sweep it; put on
some more water to heat if you take all there is."
When the Grays returned from church, their astonished eyes were met
with the spectacle of their boarder, her cheeks glowing, her hair half
down her back, and her silk dress irretrievably ruined, helping Austin
to wash and oil the one wagon which still stood in the yard. She fled at

their approach, leaving Austin to retail her conversation and explain her
conduct as best he could, and to ponder over both all the afternoon
himself.
"She's dead right about the cows," declared Thomas; "but what would
be the use of getting good stock and putting it in these barns? It would
sicken in no time. We need new buildings, with proper ventilation, and
concrete floors, and a silo."
"Why don't you say we need a million dollars, and be done with it?
You might just as well," retorted his brother.
"Because we don't--but we need about ten thousand; half of it for
buildings, and the rest for stock and utensils and fertilizers, and for
what it would cost to clean up our stumpy old pastures, and make them
worth something again."
At that moment Mrs. Cary entered the room for dinner, and the
discussion of unpossessed resources came to an abrupt end. Her color
was still high, and she ate her first hearty meal since her arrival; but her
dress and her hair were irreproachably demure again, and she talked
even less than usual.
That evening Molly begged off from doing her share with the dishes,
and went to play on her newly tuned piano. She loved music dearly,
and had genuine talent; but it seemed as if she had never realized half
so keenly before how little she knew about it, and how much she
needed help and instruction. A particularly unsuccessful struggle with a
difficult passage finally proved too much for her courage, and shutting
the piano with a bang, she leaned her head on it and burst out crying.
A moment later she sat up with a sudden jerk, realizing that the parlor
door had opened and closed, and tried to wipe away the tears before
any one saw them; then a hot blush of embarrassment and shame
flooded her wet cheeks, as she realized that the intruder was not one of
her sisters, but Mrs. Cary.
"What a good touch you have!" she said, sitting down by the piano, and

apparently quite unaware of the storm. "I love music dearly, and I
thought perhaps you'd let me come and listen to your playing for a little
while. The fingering of that 'Serenade' is awfully hard, isn't it? I
thought I should never get it, myself--never did, really well, in fact! Do
you like your teacher?"
"I never had a lesson in my life," replied Molly, the sobs rising in her
throat again; "there are two good ones in Wallacetown, but, you see, we
never could af--"
"Well, some teachers do more harm than good," interrupted her visitor,
"probably you've escaped a great deal. Play something else, won't you?
Do you mind this dim light? I like it so much."
So Molly opened the piano and began again, doing her