eaching. I didn't like that. Neither did your Aunt
Esther, but she's still teaching."

"Didn't you like any of it?" pursued Diantha.

"I liked arithmetic best. I always loved arithmetic, when I went to
school--used to stand highest in that."

"And what part of housework do you like best?" the girl persisted.

Mrs. Bell smiled again, wanly. "Seems to me sometimes as if I couldn't
tell sometimes what part I like least!" she answered. Then with sudden
heat--"O my Child! Don't you marry till Ross can afford at least one
girl for you!"

Diantha put her small, strong hands behind her head and leaned back in
her chair. "We'll have to wait some time for that I fancy," she said.
"But, Mother, there is one part you like--keeping accounts! I never saw
anything like the way you manage the money, and I believe you've got
every bill since you were married."

"Yes--I do love accounts," Mrs. Bell admitted. "And I can keep run of
things. I've often thought your Father'd have done better if he'd let me
run that end of his business."

Diantha gave a fierce little laugh. She admired her father in some ways,
enjoyed him in some ways, loved him as a child does if not ill-treated;
but she loved her mother with a sort of passionate pity mixed with
pride; feeling always nobler power in her than had ever had a fair
chance to grow. It seemed to her an interminable dull tragedy; this
graceful, eager, black-eyed woman, spending what to the girl was
literally a lifetime, in the conscientious performance of duties she did
not love.

She knew her mother's idea of duty, knew the clear head, the steady
will, the active intelligence holding her relentlessly to the task; the
chafe and fret of seeing her husband constantly attempting against her
judgment, and failing for lack of the help he scorned. Young as she was,
she realized that the nervous breakdown of these later years was wholly
due to that common misery of "the square man in the round hole."

She folded her finished sheet in accurate lines and laid it away--taking
her mother's also. "Now you sit still for once, Mother dear, read or lie
down. Don't you stir till supper's ready."

And from pantry to table she stepped, swiftly and lightly, setting out
what was needed, greased her pans and set them before her, and proceeded
to make biscuit.

Her mother watched her admiringly. "How easy you do it!" she said. "I
never could make bread without getting flour all over me. You don't
spill a s