ken knife and a milkpan and don't bring in so much earth with them as
you did last time. Dry your eyes and look at the green things growing.
Remember how young you are and how many years are ahead of you! Go
along, dear!"

Waitstill went about her work with rather a heavy heart. Was life going
to be more rather than less difficult, now that Patty was growing up?
Would she he able to do her duty both by father and sister and keep
peace in the household, as she had vowed, in her secret heart, always to
do? She paused every now and then to look out of the window and wave an
encouraging hand to Patty. The girl's bonnet was off, and her uncovered
head blazed like red gold in the sunlight. The short young grass was
dotted with dandelion blooms, some of them already grown to huge disks
of yellow, and Patty moved hither and thither, selecting the younger
weeds, deftly putting the broken knife under their roots and popping
them into the tin pan. Presently, for Deacon Baxter had finished the
wagon and gone down the hill to relieve Cephas Cole at the counter,
Patty's shrill young whistle floated into the kitchen, but with a
mischievous glance at the open window she broke off suddenly and began
to sing the words of the hymn with rather more emphasis and gusto than
strict piety warranted.

"There'll be SOMEthing in heav-en for chil-dren to do,
None are idle in that bless-ed land:
There'll be WORK for the heart. There'll be WORK for the mind,
And emPLOYment for EACH little hand.
"There'll be SOME-thing to do,
There'll be SOME-thing to do,
There'll be SOME-thing for CHIL-dren to do!
On that bright blessed shore where there's joy evermore,
There'll be SOME-thing for CHIL-DREN to do."

Patty's young existence being full to the brim of labor, this view of
heaven never in the least appealed to her and she rendered the hymn with
little sympathy. The main part of the verse was strongly accented by
jabs at the unoffending dandelion roots, but when the chorus came she
brought out the emphatic syllables by a beat of the broken knife on the
milkpan.

This rendition of a Sabbath-School classic did not meet Waitstill's
ideas of perfect propriety, but she smiled and let it pass, planning
some sort of recreation for a stolen half-hour of the afternoon. It
would have to be a walk through the pasture into the woods to see what
had grown since they went there a fortnight ago. Patty loved