“Hush, hush, dear child! You were not to blame. Any sudden shock might have caused the disaster.”
“Aunt Rebecca, do you mean to say I am not a bad, wicked girl?”
Becky straightened up with such an air of injured guilt that Mrs. Thompson looked at her in surprise.
“Becky, how old are you?”
“Sixteen, Aunt Rebecca.”
“Quite a young lady, I declare. Now that mother is laid upon a sick bed, the care of the house devolves upon you. Girls of sixteen are usually fitted for that position. Do you feel prepared to attend to those duties?”
Becky hung her head.
“No, Becky, you are not a wicked girl. But it is time for some good friend to show you how you have wasted the powers God has given you. Had you given the same attention to learning to keep house that you have to playing ball and tag, to robbing orchards and shooting the Basin, you would have been ready to take your place at your mother’s bed-side, or to take charge of cooking. You would have gained the good opinion of everybody, instead of being shunned as a tomboy; and you would not then have reproached yourself, as you do now, for being the cause of your mother’s illness.”
“I know it, I know; ’tis all my fault, ’tis all my fault!” sobbed Becky.
“Not altogether your fault, pet. You have had no one to lead you aright. But ’tis time you learned a young woman’s duties. You are quick, intelligent, apt to learn. Will you let me give you a few lessons, Becky?”