Not long after Mrs. Patience’s return from the city Rose received an offer of a home for the winter, with fifty cents a week wages, and the privilege of attending school afternoons. As she had seldom possessed a cent she could call her own this seemed like a small fortune; besides, as she had told Ben Pancost, she understood more than most of her age what it cost to live, and so was the quicker to see that with all the Blossoms’ generous hospitality, economy was carefully considered. For they were far from rich, this houseful of women with no outside breadwinner to depend on, and with her sturdy, independent nature Rose shrank from being a burden on them, the more so because of their affectionate kindness. Miss Silence and Mrs. Patience having taken Rose under their wing were unwilling she should go, unless into a permanent home, but Mrs. Blossom held that Rose should decide the question for herself, especially as she would still be in the village where they could watch over her. While Grandmother Sweet placidly observed, “Providence seems to have opened the place for Rose, and the openings of Providence are usually for some wise purpose.”
The offer had been most unexpected. Miss Fifield had come to Silence Blossom to have a dress fitted, and in the familiar conversation which accompanied the process she had remarked that she and her sister were doing their work themselves as the hired girl had gone home sick. “Of course,” she explained, “we have Ellen Gill in to do the washing and ironing and scrubbing; not but that we could do it all, for it was my father’s boast that his daughters were thoroughly capable. And they all are but Eudora; she will not, and while I’m willing to do my share I’m not willing to do mine and other people’s too. I don’t believe Eudora would soil her hands if her life depended on it. If you’ll believe me, Silence Blossom, she has gone and made a mop to wash dishes with. It makes me sick, it positively does, to see her mopping the dishes off, and lifting them out with a fork, for fear the dishwater will make her hands rough.” And Miss Fifield, tall, spare, and angular, who counted all attempt at personal adornment the sign of a weak mind, gave a little sniff of contempt.
At this moment Rose came into the sitting-room to bring Grandmother Sweet a piece of fresh sponge cake, her first triumph in real cake-making under Mrs. Blossom. Miss Fifield through the partly open door of the bedroom which also served as fitting-room, regarded her neat gingham work-apron and animated, rosy face with evident approval.
“Who is that young girl?” she asked. “I don’t remember to have ever seen her before.”
“She is Rose Shannon,” Miss Silence answered as well as she could with her mouth full of pins. “She came to Farmdale with the idea that she could live with Aunt Maria Ames, and is staying with us for the present.”
Miss Fifield prided herself on her prompt decisions, and the idea at once occurred to her that such a tidy little handmaid would be pleasant and useful to have.
“If she wants to she can come to us; we will give her a home, and something besides.”
Silence Blossom was measuring Miss Fifield’s bony arm for the sleeve. “I don’t know,” her voice dubious; “Rose was planning to go to school when it opened next term.”
“I think we could manage for her to go afternoons; there isn’t much to do after dinner. I suppose,” she added, “that Eudora and Brother Nathan will object. They never agree on anything only in opposing me, but what I undertake I intend to carry through.”
But for once Miss Fifield was mistaken, Miss Eudora heartily agreed with the plan. She could put on gloves to sweep, and cake and pastry making were something any lady might do with dignity; but dish-washing even with the aid of a mop, she viewed with horror. Furthermore, her sister refused to wash the dishes a day over half the time.