"Oh, bother!" she cried impatiently, as, in opening the door, she upset a lot more, "it is such nonsense having tray-cloths and all those faddy things. If I had brought it in my hand, without any tray at all, it wouldn't have mattered."
"Would it not? What do you think I drink milk for, Faith?"
"Why for nourishment, of course. To make you strong."
"Well then, does it not matter if you deprive me of a third of my nourishment, of my strength?"
"Oh, mother!" Faith looked shocked, "of course it does."
"And, apart from that, if you had brought it in your hand, and spilled it, you would have ruined the stair carpets, and you know how very, very hard it would be to get new ones."
"Oh! I hadn't thought of that. I suppose that is why one uses trays. The cloth doesn't matter—that will wash—but I am very sorry I wasted the milk, mother."
"But, darling, the cloth does matter. Everything matters in some way. Someone will have to wash, and starch, and iron it—all extra work—and someone will have to pay for the soap, and the starch, and the fire for heating the water, and the irons. Don't you see, dear, what big consequences our tiniest actions often have?"
Faith sighed. "I wonder if I shall ever learn to be careful," she said, hopelessly.
"Not until you really want to, dear."