One afternoon about the last of November, Molly, weary of sewing and reading, weary inexpressibly weary, of her confinement and enforced quietude, was gazing longingly down the avenue, wishing that some one would come to take her out for an airing, when the door opened and her mother came in dressed for the open air, in hat, cloak and furs.
"I want you to button my glove, Molly," she said, holding out her wrist, "Rachel's so busy on my new silk, and you have nothing to do. What a fortunate child you are to be able to take your ease all the time."
"My ease!" cried Molly bitterly, "I'd be gladder than words can tell to change places with you for awhile."
"Humph! you don't know what you're wishing; the way I have to worry over my sewing for four besides myself, is enough to try the patience of a saint. By the way, it's high time you began to make yourself useful in that line. With practice, you might soon learn to accomplish a great deal, having nothing to do but stick at it from morning to night."
Molly was in the act of buttoning the second glove. Tears sprang to her eyes at this evidence of her mother's heartlessness, and one bright drop fell on Enna's wrist.
"There you have stained my glove!" she exclaimed angrily. "What a baby you are! will you never have done with this continued crying?"
"It seems to be very easy for you to bear my troubles, mother," returned poor Molly, raising her head proudly, and dashing away the tears, "I will try to learn to bear them too, and never again appeal to my mother for sympathy."
"You get enough of that from Dick, he cares ten times as much for you as he does for me—his own mother."
At that moment Betty came running in. "Mother, the carriage is at the door, and grandpa's ready. Molly, grandpa says he'll take you too, if you want to go."
Molly's face brightened, but before she could speak, Enna answered for her. "No, she can't; there isn't time to get her ready."