herself wanted to see nobody just then, but
there was no help for it. She washed the dough from her hands, and
saying to Margaret, as she hurriedly left the kitchen:

"Finish that pie, and watch the fire; don't let that cake burn, nor
the cranberries."

Alas! for Margaret. She became so absorbed in rolling the upper crust
of the mince pie, and in trying to cut a beautiful pine-tree on it,
that she forgot all about the fire, and the cake, and the
cranberries. An odour, not savoury, came from the stove. Margaret
rushed out, but it was too late; the cranberries sent up a dense
black smoke, and were burned fast to the new porcelain kettle, and,
horrors! on opening the oven door, the fruit-cake was a sight to
behold--as black as a hat, and an ominous-looking valley in the
centre of it!

"Flo! go tell mother to come here quick!" screamed Margaret.
"Everything has gone to destruction."

Any housekeeper can well imagine what a person, who did not hold firm
rule over nerve and tongue would say under such aggravations.
Although her mother's words stung like scorpions, Margaret did not
attempt to excuse herself this time, for she felt keenly that she had
been guilty of great neglect, and she would have told her mother so
if the bitter words had not made her hard and sullen. The longer her
mother talked, the less she felt that she cared for the consequences
of her fault. This Saturday's work was unusual, not only because
Christmas was near at hand, but an old aunt of Mrs. Murray's was
coming from Philadelphia to make a visit. She had not visited her
niece in many years. She also used to be a model housekeeper, and
Mrs. Murray was anxious that everything should appear to the best
advantage. At last the toil and strife of that day was over, the work
was all done up and the girls sought their own room.

"Maggie," said Florence, "what do you suppose Aunt Deborah will
bring us for Christmas presents?" Florence braided her golden locks
as she talked, her face cheerful as usual. The trials of that day had
left no mark on her sunny face. Not so with Maggie; the frown was
still on her forehead, and she flung herself on the lounge in a
despairing sort of way as she answered, "I'm sure I don't know nor
care either, whether I ever get another present in my life."

"Why, Maggie! What's the matter?"

"The matter is that I am tired of this awful life. I work, work, and
be scolded all the time. I wish Aunt Deborah was in Jericho, or
an