I had my heart's desire at last—with the usual calamitous result. Of course it came when I least expected it, and in the paltriest kind of way—merely because a workman, whom I had engaged to put a new stove into the children's play-room, chose to leave his job unfinished until over Sunday, instead of clearing it off on Saturday morning, as he easily might have done. There was no school on Saturday, and it was a wet, cold day, when even the boys had to be kept indoors; so there was nothing for it but to turn them and Phyllis into the dining-room—my nice dining-room, which had lately had a new carpet—while I took the drawing-room for myself and Lily, to keep her out of harm's way. She was not very well—nor was I; and I confess that I was in a cross mood. I had all my four children with me then, safe under my wing, and did not know how well off I was!
During the morning they were fairly good, preparing their lessons most of the time; but after dinner they were at a loss for amusement, tired of the house, restless and mischievous—very wearing to a mother whose nerves were out of tune. Even Lily became fractious. I gave her a doll and some picture-books and my work-basket to play with, but she fiddled with them, and fidgeted, and would not settle to anything. She kept listening to the noises from the dining-room—the boys paid no heed to my repeated calls to them to be quiet—and uttering monotonous whinings to be allowed to go there.
"Mother, do let me go and play with the others."
"No, Lily; little girls must not romp about with rough boys."
"Phyllis is a little girl, and she's romping with them."
"Phyllis hasn't a bad cold, as you have."
"My cold is quite better now, mother."
"No, it isn't. It is only a little better. And we mustn't let it get worse again by running into draughts."
"There are no draughts in the dining-room, mother. It's all shut up. I can put the flannel round my neck, mother."
Oh, I could have smacked her! But of course I didn't, poor little ailing mite—barely three years old; besides, my attention was constantly distracted by the boys, who, when not rushing into and out of the hall, yelling and slamming doors as if they wanted to bring the house down, were scuffling and thumping within the dining-room in a way to make me tremble for my good furniture. I went to them once or twice to read the riot act, and each time they left off what they were doing the moment they heard me, sat mumchance while I scolded them, almost laughing in my face, and went on worse than ever directly my back was turned. Boys will be boys, Tom used to tell me, in his easy-going way, but I don't believe in letting boys defy their mother with impunity. And when presently I heard the yapping of a dog in addition to their own shouts and cries, I was at the end of my patience with them, determined to assert myself effectually once for all.