And off went the two little girls, with beaming faces, trying to make themselves useful.
"What shall I do?" thought Prudy, for every body was at work,—even Horace, who was turning the grindstone for the men.
"I'll dust the parlors, that's what I'll do. It does take aunt Madge so long."
So, with the big feather duster, Prudy made a great stir among the books and ornaments, and at last knocked over a little pitcher and broke its nose.
"You little meddlesome thing," cried aunt Louise, as soon as she knew it, "this is one of your days, I should think!"
"I didn't mean to," cried the child; "I was trying to help."
"Don't say you didn't mean to; you hadn't any business to touch the duster. I shall have to snip your fingers, I do believe."
"Don't," begged the child, "I'll snip my hands, you needn't; I'll snip my hands and get the naughty out."
"They ought to be snipped from now till next Christmas," said aunt Louise, laughing in spite of herself to see the little one set to work with thumb and finger, trying to do her own punishing. "There, there, go off, and be a good girl."
Prudy's bright spirits rose again at these words, and she thought she would keep on trying to make herself useful. It was aunt Madge she wanted to help—good aunt Madge, who was so busy cooking for the gypsy supper.