"There is always one's work," said Lois lightly. She knew it would be in vain to tell her questioner the instances that came up in her memory; the first dish of ripe strawberries brought in to surprise her grandmother; the new potatoes uncommonly early; the fine yield of her raspberry bushes; the wonderful beauty of the early mornings in her garden; the rarer, sweeter beauty of the Bible reading and talk with old Mrs. Armadale; the triumphant afternoons on the shore, from which she and her sisters came back with great baskets of long clams; and countless other visions of home comfort and home peace, things accomplished and the fruit of them enjoyed. Miss Caruthers could not understand all this; so Lois answered simply,
"There is always one's work."
"Work! I hate work," cried the other woman. "What do you call work?"
"Everything that is to be done," said Lois. "Everything, except what we do for mere pleasure. We keep no servant; my sisters and I do all that there is to do, in doors and out."
"Out—of—doors!" cried Miss Caruthers. "What do you mean? You cannot do the farming?"
"No," said Lois, smiling merrily; "no; not the farming. That is done by men. But the gardening I do."
"Not seriously?"
"Very seriously. If you will come and see us, I will give you some new potatoes of my planting. I am rather proud of them. I was just thinking of them."
"Planting potatoes!" repeated the other lady, not too politely. "Then that is the reason why you find it a pleasure to sit here and see those waves beat."
The logical concatenation of this speech was not so apparent but that it touched all the risible nerves of the party; and Miss Caruthers could not understand why all three laughed so heartily.