Now if there was one thing more than another which Maggie disliked, it was sewing. She always called the half-hour during which her mother taught her to sew "the worst time of the day." It was strange, too, for she had quick and skilful fingers, and sewed remarkably well for a little girl of seven, and people generally like to do that which they do well. But it was not so with Maggie, and her face grew very sober when her mother said she might hem her towels.
"But, mamma," she said.
"Well, dear?"
"Mamma, you know I cannot bear to sew. I do so hate it! And a dozen towels,—that means twelve, don't it?—why, I should never, never have them done."
"It shall be just as you choose, dear. I do not say you must do them, only that you may. But, Maggie, we can seldom do much good to others without taking some trouble or using some self-denial ourselves."
"I do not know what self-denial is, mamma."
"Self-denial is to give up something we would like to have, or perhaps to do something that is disagreeable or troublesome to ourselves, for the sake of another. This morning I gave you two plums,—one for yourself, one for Bessie. One was much larger than the other, and I saw that you gave it to Bessie, keeping the smaller one for yourself. That was self-denial."
"But, mamma," said Maggie, "that was not anything much. I could not do such a greedy thing as to give my own Bessie the little plum and eat the big one myself. I would be too ashamed."
"I am glad to say that neither of my little girls is greedy or selfish," said mamma. "Do you remember the day at Quam Beach when your head was hurt, and Tom Norris came up to read a new book to you?"
"Oh, yes'm, it was so kind of him; and he read 'most all the afternoon."