Betty when the small figure had
slipped away.

"Yes, it is a hard life," said Betty. "It seems as if children's lives
ought to be happier. I don't know what makes Mary so hard. I'm sure she
does not get it from father or mother. She appears to think all the
virtue of the world lies in work. I wonder what such people will do in
heaven!"

"Oh, Betty, do try to have her come to Boston. I know Uncle Win will
feel sorry for her."

Those years in the early part of the century were not happy ones for
childhood in general. Too much happiness was considered demoralizing in
this world and a poor preparation for the next. Work was the great
panacea for all sorts of evils. It was seldom work for one's neighbors,
though people were ready to go in sickness and trouble. It was adding
field to field and interest to interest, to strive and save and wear
one's self out and die.

Elizabeth was up betimes the next morning, and there lay the paper with
chapter and verse and some "remarks." Her heart swelled with gratitude
as she ran downstairs. Sarah had made the "shed" fire and the big wash
kettle had been put over it. She was rubbing out the first clothes, the
nicest pieces.

"Now fly round, 'Lisbeth," said her mother. "You've dawdled enough these
few days back, and there'll be an account to settle presently. I suppose
your head was so full of that bunch of vanity you never remembered a
word of the sermon yesterday. What was the text in the morning?"

Elizabeth's pale face turned scarlet and her lip quivered; her slight
frame seemed to shrink a moment, then in a gasping sort of way she gave
chapter and verse and repeated the words.

"I don't think that was it," said her mother sharply. "Ruth was in a
fidget just as the text was given out. Wasn't that last Sunday's text?"

"Some of the others may remember," the child said in her usual
apathetical voice.

"Well, you needn't act as if you were going to have a hysteric! Hand me
that dish of beans. Your father likes them warmed over. Quick, there he
comes now. You stir them."

A trivet stood on the glowing coals, and the pan soon warmed through.
Father and the men took their places. Foster came in sleepily.

"Where's James?" inquired his mother.

"I don't want him in the field to-day. He can weed in the garden. You
send him with the dinners."

"Where was yesterday morning's text, Foster?" Mrs. Manning asked
sharply.

The boy looked up blankly. As there was no Sunday evening