_is_ it?" he said, honestly. "I'm a little cross-eyed,
I expect; and that's why I couldn't see it before."

XIX.

MONDAY MORNING.

"I am not going to put off washing until the middle of the week, to wait
for any girl!" said Mrs. Royden, positively. "We shall have enough to do
after Margaret comes, without keeping a great heap of dirty clothes to
be washed."

"Well, do as you like," replied her husband, with a dissatisfied air.
"But I know just how it will be. You and the girls will wear yourselves
out before noon. If you would only take things quietly, and not try to
do too much, you would get along better; but you see so much to
accomplish, that you fly into a heat and a hurry, which you seldom
recover from for two or three days."

Mrs. Royden was resolved. The regular Monday's work was to be done, and
nothing could induce her to postpone it. The great boiler was put on the
kitchen stove before breakfast, and the clothes got ready for the wash.

It seemed her nature to be cross on such days, and the children knew
what to expect. There could be no fun on Monday morning. All must do
something,--even Georgie must pull out the stitches of a seam, and
Willie must rock the baby. It seemed that poor Hepsy did everything, and
gave satisfaction in nothing.

That was a hard day for Sam. The mowers came, one after the other, and
he had to turn the grindstone for them to grind their scythes in
succession. They were good-natured, energetic men; and, not wishing them
to know how lazy he was, he worked industriously at the crank, before
and after breakfast. But the last man "bore on enough to break the
stone," Sam said; and he groaned under the infliction, asking, from time
to time, if the scythe was "most finished."

At length, to his great joy, it was well ground from heel to point, and
its master fastened it to the snath. Shouldering it, and thrusting a
"rifle" into his belt, the jolly mower went whistling to the meadow, to
join his companions and Mr. Royden, who had gone before.

In the midst of his rejoicing, Sam was dismayed to see Chester make his
appearance, with another scythe. It was to be ground, and Sam was just
the fellow to help do that work, with his lame ankle.

"Let _me_ hold the scythe and _you_ turn," whined the lad.

"Turn away!" exclaimed Chester, authoritatively.

Sam turned very slowly, groaning with each revolution of the crank.

"You lazy scamp! I'll cut a sprout, and lay it on your ba