"I am not allowed at home to soil my clothes or my hands; they will get too coarse and rough, Nannette, my nurse, says."
"No matter for Nannette; you are too much of a lady not to assist me. Come, we will arrange about the clothes afterwards. I have some pretty little gingham gowns which will fit you, and we will lay aside these fine feathers."
Thus appealed to, though in a very novel manner, on the score of her ladyhood, Laura tied on the apron and obeyed the Motherkin with less reluctance. She was awkward, and made mistakes. She placed cups where plates should go, and turned things upside down and downside up. And when the old lady told her she had done enough, she sat down and cried for vexation, she had done so badly. Again came the whimsical little smile on the Motherkin's face, and, opening the door, she said,
"Come, Laura, and see my cow and my pig, and let me show you my garden."
Laura rose, but scorned the amusement, and soon found herself admiring both cow and pig, for both were white and clean as two roses; and when the Motherkin showed her a corner which was to be her own garden, to dig in as she pleased, she no longer felt contemptuously as she had done. But the novelty of having a garden and being allowed to dig in it did not make her less homesick and dreary when bedtime came, and she had to creep off alone to the clean but hard little bed. She slept, though, soundly and well.
CHAPTER III.
The rushing of the brook wakened Laura, and she gazed about her; slowly and dimly the sense of where she was came upon her, and she resolved that she would stay in bed. There was no nurse to dress her, no elegant toilet arrangements such as she was always in the habit of using: a little earthenware bowl and jug in the place of her luxurious bath, a good coarse towel instead of the snowy damask linen, and over the foot of the bed a common print dress and a checked apron, both spotlessly clean, had been placed. She looked at them and buried her face in her pillow. The Motherkin called her in vain. After waiting a long while, she came up to her.
"Why are you not out of bed, my child?" she asked, most kindly. "It is a bright, clear morning. Are you not well?"
Laura said nothing; ashamed of her own sulkiness, she yet was not prepared to acknowledge it.