"It isn't so pretty as home, mother," a sedate small voice said, and the little maiden on the table folded her hands.
"Pretty! There isn't a scrap of woodbine anywhere," said Susan.
"Won't father get some?"
"It wouldn't grow here, if he did, I expect."
"Won't father get some nice garden-mould, mother?"
Susan shook her head. "I don't know what he'll do yet, child. We've got to make the best of things—somehow."
Then she fell to her work anew. The boards were getting dry, and soon it was time to lay the carpet down. The elder girl, Nancy, was upstairs, finishing the bedrooms; and the boy, Dick, had gone to assist. So Susie climbed off the table, and offered her tiny help. It was little, if anything, that she could really do; yet Susan would not spurn that little or nothing. For the child wanted to be useful, and that was good both for child and mother. So Susan had often said.
"Pull harder, Susie. It is not straight yet," Susan said encouragingly.
All at once a stronger hand grasped Susie's corner, and in a trice the matter was accomplished. Susan said, "Why, Richard!" and looked up.
No, not Richard Dunn. A stout motherly woman was raising herself erect.