"Kitty," called her father from his bedroom, hearing the racket, "what are you doing?"
"I'm cleaning house," answered Kitty promptly.
And her father, because he did not know what else to do, let her work. From the cupboard she went to the mantelpiece, bundled the things all off in a heap, washed it thoroughly, and put everything in order. What a day it was to Kitty! One improvement led to another, and as things began to grow clean in her hands, she grew wonderfully interested, and only stopped at noon to warm her father's gruel.
It was Saturday, and Tip had gone to pile wood for Mr. Bailey. He was to get his dinner and a grammar for his pay. He had wanted a grammar all winter, so he worked with a will; and Kitty saw neither him nor her mother through all the busy day. The early sun had set long before. Kitty thought he certainly would not know that room the next morning, it was all so changed. The paper curtain was mended and tacked up in its place; the old lounge cover was mended and fastened on smoothly; the mantelpiece shone and glowed in the firelight; the two shiny candlesticks, and beside them the little box of matches, were all that remained there of the rubbish of the morning; the floor was just as smooth and clean as soap and ashes, with plenty of hot water and an old broom, could make it; hoods and shawls and aprons and old shoes had all disappeared,—nothing was lying around: the table was drawn out, the clean, smooth plates arranged so as to hide the soiled spots on the tablecloth, the pudding was bubbling away in the astonished kettle, and Kitty's joy had been complete, when, only a few minutes before, after a great deal of stamping and pounding, she had opened the door to Howard Minturn, who said,—
"Mother sent you some milk for your supper.—Where's Tip?—Isn't it cold, though?—There'll be prime skating to-night.—Give me the pitcher right away, please." All this in one breath.
Now they would have beautiful fresh milk for supper; and if there was anything which Tip liked, it was pudding and milk.
So Kitty set the old arm-chair in the warmest corner for her mother, fastened her father's door wide open, so that he could see the new room, then stirred her pudding, and watched and waited. Her mother came first. Kitty's heart had never beat more anxiously than when she heard the slow, tired step on the hard snow. Would she notice anything different? In she came, tired, cross, and cold, expecting to find disorder, discomfort, and cold inside. Could anybody, having eyes, fail to notice the changes which had been wrought in that little room since she went out from it in the early morning? She shut the door with a little slam, and then the flush of the firelight seemed to blind her a little; she brushed her hand over her face, and looked around her with a bewildered air. Kitty went over to her; some way she felt a great kindness in her heart for her mother, a great longing to do something for her.
"Is it cold, mother?" she asked brightly. "Take that chair," pointing to the seat in the warm corner. "Supper's all ready, and I've made a cup of tea for you."
Mrs. Lewis took off her hood and shawl in silence, untied her wet shoes, and placed her cold feet on the clean, warm stove-hearth; took in the brightness of the room, the shiny candlesticks, the neatly-spread tea-table; took whiffs of the steaming tea,—all in utter silence; only, when Kitty's father, looking out, said, "There's been business done here since you went away," something in her mother's voice, as she answered, "I should think there had," made the blood rush warmly into Kitty's cheeks, and made her whisper to herself, as she stooped to place the wet shoes under the stove to dry, "Mr. Holbrook told me true, I do believe. I guess I have pleased Jesus to-day; I feel so."
While she was taking up the pudding, there was a merry whistle outside, a brisk, crushing step on the snow, and Tip whizzed into the room.