ard, and
proceeded to milk the half dozen cows awaiting them.

It was nearly dark and very cold; but no word was spoken except to the
animals, as the girls hurried through the work and hastened back
to the kitchen, where Rachel and the mother were clearing away
the supper-table and making the needful preparations for the early
breakfast.

When all was finished the mother and daughters entered the large room
adjoining the kitchen, which served as sitting-room for the family and
bed-room for the parents, Mr. Stillman not permitting a fire kept
in any other room in the house. Mrs. Stillman sat down with her
knitting-work as close in the corner as possible; Elizabeth brought
in a large basket of rags, and she and Margaret were soon busy sewing
strips and winding balls for a carpet. The younger children were
absorbed in their lessons at the table, where the father sat reading
his newspaper.

All were silent, for to have spoken while father was reading would
have been an unforgivable offence. At last, however, Mr. Stillman
lifted his eyes from the paper, and addressing Tom, said: "Well, how
did you get along at school to-day?"

"Oh, first rate," said the boy; but that lost head mark rankled in his
mind, and he added, "Rachel was called up by the teacher."

"How was that, Rachel?" said her father sharply. Poor girl!--deep in
the mysteries of long division, she did not hear him.

"Rachel," he repeated, "what were you called up in school for to-day?"

She glanced reproachfully at Tom. "I read a little in 'The Pilgrim's
Progress,' father. It's not a story-book--"

"Never mind what it is. I send you to school to study, and you're not
to touch any but your school-books."

"May I bring it home?" she faltered.

"Bring it home, indeed! No, miss. I guess you can find enough to do at
home. Not another word more, or you will stay at home for good."

The child bent over her slate; but tears would come, and at last a sob
burst forth.

"Clear out to bed, Rachel," said her father angrily. "I want no
snivelling here."

Upstairs, in the cold, dark room, what bitter thoughts surged through
the childish brain!

Mr. Stillman loved his wife and children. He wanted them to be happy,
but in his way. He must choose their pleasures. If they could not be
satisfied with what he chose for them, it was not his fault; it was
their perversity. And as no two souls are alike, the attempt to fit a
number of them by the same pattern necessari