"But what harm should they do me?"
"Life is not a story. I don't want you to think it is."
"Why shouldn't it be? Perhaps my life will be a story, mother. I think it will," said the girl slowly. "I shouldn't want my life to be always like this."
"Are you not happy?"
"O yes, mother! But then, by and by, I should like to be a princess, or to have adventures, and see things; like the people in stories."
"You will never be a princess, my child. You are a poor farmer's daughter. You had better make up your mind to it, and try to be the best thing you can in the circumstances."
"You mean, do my duty and shell peas?" asked the girl somewhat doubtfully, looking at her mother's fingers and the quick stripped pea pods passing through them. "Is father poor, mother?"
"Yes."
"He has a good farm, he says."
"Yes, but it is encumbered heavily." And Mrs. Carpenter sighed. Rotha had often heard her mother sigh so. It was a breath with a burden.