Then the little feet went with a light tread down the stairs, that she might disturb nobody, and paused in the hall. The light struggling in through the fanlights over the door; the air close; a smell of kerosene in the parlour; chairs and table in a state of disarrangement; the litter of Clarissa's work on the carpet; the parlour stove cold. Little Matilda wished to herself that some other hands were there, not hers, to do all that must be done. But clearly Maria would never get through with it. She stood looking a minute; then plunged into the work. She opened the shutters and the curtains, and threw up the windows. Then picked up the litter. Then she saw that the services of a broom were needed; and Matilda fetched the broom, and brushed out the parlour and the hall. It tired her arms; she was not used to it. Dusting the furniture was more in her line; and then Matilda came to the conclusion that if a fire was to be kindled in time this morning, it must be done by herself; Maria would be fully occupied in the kitchen. So down-stairs she went for billets of wood for kindling. There was Maria, in trouble.
"This stove won't draw, Tilly."
"What is the matter?"
"Why that. It won't draw. It just smokes."
"It always does draw, Maria."
"Well, it won't to-day."
"Did you put kindling enough in?"
"There's nothing but kindling!—and smoke."
"Why, you've got the damper turned," said Matilda, coming up to look; "see, that's the matter. It won't light with the damper turned."
"Stupid!" Maria muttered; and Matilda went off to make her own fire. Happily that did not smoke. The parlour and hall were all in nice order; the books put in place, and everything ready for the comfort of people when they should come to enjoy it; and Matilda went to join her sister in the kitchen. The fire was going there too, and the kitchen warm, and Maria stood with her hands folded, in front of the stove.