thought to herself: "How curious it is
that I've been a sort of missionary without knowing it! They all
love and thank me, and won't let me go, so I suppose I must have
done something, but I don't know what, except trying to be good and
pleasant."

That was the secret, and Jill found it out just when it was most
grateful as a reward for past efforts, most helpful as an encouragement
toward the constant well-doing which can make even a little girl a joy
and comfort to all who know and love her.

Chapter XVI. Up at Merry's

"Now fly round, child, and get your sweeping done up smart and early."

"Yes, mother."

"I shall want you to help me about the baking, by and by."

"Yes, mother."

"Roxy is cleaning the cellar-closets, so you'll have to get the
vegetables ready for dinner. Father wants a boiled dish, and I shall be
so busy I can't see to it."

"Yes, mother."

A cheerful voice gave the three answers, but it cost Merry an effort to
keep it so, for she had certain little plans of her own which made the
work before her unusually distasteful. Saturday always was a trying day,
for, though she liked to see rooms in order, she hated to sweep, as no
speck escaped Mrs. Grant's eye, and only the good old-fashioned broom,
wielded by a pair of strong arms, was allowed. Baking was another trial:
she loved good bread and delicate pastry, but did not enjoy burning her
face over a hot stove, daubing her hands with dough, or spending hours
rolling out cookies for the boys; while a "boiled dinner" was her
especial horror, as it was not elegant, and the washing of vegetables
was a job she always shirked when she could.

However, having made up her mind to do her work without complaint, she
ran upstairs to put on her dust-cap, trying to look as if sweeping was
the joy of her life.

"It is such a lovely day, I did want to rake my garden, and have a walk
with Molly, and finish my book so I can get another," she said with a
sigh, as she leaned out of the open window for a breath of the unusually
mild air.

Down in the ten-acre lot the boys were carting and spreading loam; out
in the barn her father was getting his plows ready; over the hill rose
the smoke of the distant factory, and the river that turned the wheels
was gliding through the meadows, where soon the blackbirds would be
singing. Old Bess pawed the ground, eager to be off; the gray hens
were scratching busily all about the yard; even the green things in the