The love of home is born with every Englishman, and the women in whose hearts it does not live are untrue to the traditions of their race. These women, who had been brought into Wales by Mr. Knight, had forgotten many things; but few there were who did not honestly try to remember the old lessons of their girlhood, when the word was passed round to them: “The places are clean and comfortable, and you are expected to keep them so.” And, therefore, on this Saturday there was an immense amount of scrubbing and rubbing, of making dainty curtains and pretty rosettes, of hanging up pictures and ornaments, and of showing in a dozen ways how dear the new homes were becoming to the hearts of those who dwelt in them.
“Craighelbyl must have another name,” said Mary Wythburn; “something that means a city of homes; for that is what our place will become.”
“It is that already, thanks to Mr. Knight and to you, dear Basket Woman,” said a girl, looking with loving eyes at her friend. “My father is delighted at the thought that the rent which he pays is to be really purchase-money, and that in ten years the house will be his own. Mr. Knight does not know how he has saved father. Every Saturday he used to sit and drink, and then come to our wretched home cross with himself and every one else. To-day he is gone with Mr. Wythburn to get two trees to plant in his own garden. Mr. Wythburn said he could take the men where they could find young saplings which they might transplant. Father is looking for a sycamore and an elder tree.”
“The elder tree grows rapidly,” said Mary, “and perhaps that is the reason why your father has chosen it.”
“No, the reason is that there was an elder tree in the garden of the house in which he was born, for my father was a country boy. I should prefer a birch; but perhaps that would not grow, and the elder will. Miss Wythburn, please, I am sent to you as a deputation. Some of the girls want to know whether they may come and look-through your house to see if they can imitate the pretty things which they are sure are in it.”
“Oh, no! Of course not. What impudence!” The exclamations were not Mary Wythburn’s but Fanny Burton’s, whose face flushed with anger, and whose tones were those of indignation. Mary laid a restraining hand upon Fanny’s shoulder, and answered the request very differently.
“I will ask my mother; and I am sure that she will be happy to show you the clever contrivances about which she has been busy all the week. There is nobody like my mother for the fancy-work which beautifies a home. I believe that if she had nothing but an underground kitchen to live in she would contrive to make it look pretty.”
“But, of course, she does not want everybody to copy her ideas; it isn’t very likely,” said Fanny, grudgingly.
“Yes, Fanny; it is not only likely, but certain, that she will be glad to see her plans repeated in any number of homes. My mother is a very large-hearted woman indeed; it is worth while for you to know her better than you do.”
Fanny was silenced, and Mary Wythburn went away to arrange with her mother for the object-lesson in housekeeping which some of the girls wanted. Mrs. Wythburn was exceedingly amused. She was living in most simple style, having taken very little furniture into the new home. But Mary was right. No place could be other than pretty and home-like where her mother was, and, though the house was new and the furniture plain, there was something which made it look altogether different from all the other houses in Craighelbyl. All the girls who wished passed through the rooms and admired or criticised their arrangements, and the gentle hostess not only allowed them to examine the objects which interested them, but explained how they were made. This was greatly appreciated by the young housekeepers, who were anxious to improve themselves and their homes.