Also fill my hands with such convenient skill
As will conduce to virtue void of shame,
And I will give the glory to Thy name.”
The letters forming these words were characterized by a noble independence and freedom from any slavish adherence to custom, some of them being capitals and some small, some little and some big, and the D’s turning their backs or their faces to their comrades as a vagrant fancy dictated. Such as it was, however, this sampler was in Betty Alden’s eyes a work of art commanding her respectful admiration, mingled with a warmer feeling rising from her very sincere love for the artist.
“Oh, Lora!” cried she, throwing an arm around the girl’s slender neck and kissing her heartily, “one can see that you come of gentle blood, and are fitter for silken embroidery than for the milking-stool which is my usual workbench.”
“Nay, I would love to milk, and churn, and cook, and knit gray hosen, but father will not have it so,” said Lora a little wearily. “I may spin, and sew, and do my tent-stitch, and help mother make syllabubs and the like, but it angers him if I soil my hands or wear a homespun kirtle such as is fit for rough work”—
“Rough work and Lora are droll ideas to bring together, aren’t they, auntie?” interrupted Betty with another hug and kiss to her friend, whose sweet face had grown a little flushed and worried as she spoke.
“But come, dear, I want you to go with me to see Bessie and ask her if this wonderful news is sooth. She may come, mayn’t she, auntie?”
“Yes, child, so that you’re both back for supper. Father can’t abide finding Lora’s seat empty at table.”
“We’ll be sure to come. Now, Loly, where’s your hood?”