for a somewhat tall
charwoman. I would keep watch at the gate to give warning should any
one looking like a possible late caller turn the corner of the street,
coming back now and then in answer to a low whistle to help my father
grope about in the dark for the hearthstone; he was always mislaying
the hearthstone. How much better, helping to clean the knives or running
errands than wasting all one's morning dwelling upon the shocking
irregularity of certain classes of French verbs; or making useless
calculations as to how long X, walking four and a quarter miles an hour,
would be overtaking Y, whose powers were limited to three and a half,
but who had started two and three quarter hours sooner; the whole
argument being reduced to sheer pedantry by reason of no information
being afforded to the student concerning the respective thirstiness of X
and Y.

Even my father and mother were able to take it lightly with plenty of
laughter and no groaning that I ever heard. For over all lay the morning
light of hope, and what prisoner, escaping from his dungeon, ever stayed
to think of his torn hands and knees when beyond the distant opening he
could see the sunlight glinting through the brambles?

"I had no idea," said my mother, "there was so much to do in a house.
In future I shall arrange for the servants to have regular hours, and a
little time to themselves, for rest. Don't you think it right, Luke?"

"Quite right," replied my father; "and I'll tell you another thing we'll
do. I shall insist on the landlord's putting a marble doorstep to the
next house we take; you pass a sponge over marble and it is always
clean."

"Or tesselated," suggested my mother.

"Or tesselated," agreed my father; "but marble is more uncommon."

Only once, can I recall a cloud. That was one Sunday when my mother,
speaking across the table in the middle of dinner, said to my father,
"We might save the rest of that stew, Luke; there's an omelette coming."

My father laid down the spoon. "An omelette!"

"Yes," said my mother. "I thought I would like to try again."

My father stepped into the back kitchen--we dined in the kitchen, as a
rule, it saved much carriage--returning with the wood chopper.

"What ever are you going to do, Luke, with the chopper?" said my mother.

"Divide the omelette," replied my father.

My mother began to cry.

"Why, Maggie--!" said my father.

"I know the other one was leathery," said my mother, "but it was the