"La, child, I don't know what people mean by convenient. You look at it one way, and there is nothing convenient; and you look at it another way, and there is nothing but what is. Hang your things over that chair; and I'll put an apron on you."
"But which way does it look this afternoon, Miss Redwood?"
The housekeeper laughed, and kissed Tilly, whom she was arraying in a great check apron, big enough to cover her.
"It is just how you choose to take it," she said. "I declare I'm sorry for the folks as is tied to convenience; they don't get the right good of their life. Why, honey, what isn't my convenience is somebody else's convenience, maybe. I want it to be sunshine very often, so as I kin dry my clothes, when the farmers want it to be rain to make their corn and cabbages grow. It is sure to be convenient for somebody."
"But I want it to be convenient for you, this afternoon," said Matilda, wistfully.
"Well, 'tis," said the housekeeper. "There—wash your hands in that bowl, dear; and here's a clean towel for you. A body as wants to have things convenient, had better not be a minister's housekeeper. No, the place is nice enough," she went on, as she saw Matilda's eye glance around the kitchen; "'tain't that; but I always think convenient means having your own way; and that nobody need expect to do at the parsonage. Just so sure as I make pot pie, Mr. Richmond'll hev to go to a funeral, and it's spiled or lost, for he's no time to eat it; and I never cleaned up that hall and steps yet, but an army of boots and shoes came tramping over it out of the dirt; when if it wants cleaning, it'll get leave to be without a foot crossing it all the afternoon. And if it's bakin' day, I have visitors, and have to run between them and the oven, till I don't know which end is the parlour; and that's the way, Tilly; and I don't know no better way but to conclude that somebody else's convenience is yourn—and then you'll live in clover. The minister had to preach to me a good while before I could see it, though. Now, honey, sift your flour;—here it is. Kin you do it?"
Matilda essayed to do it, and the housekeeper looked on.
"The damper is turned," she said; "we'll have the oven hot by the time the cake is ready. Now, dear, what's going into it?"
"Will that be enough?" said Matilda, lifting her floury hand out of the pan.
"I want a piece," said the housekeeper; "so there had better go another bowlful. And the minister—he likes a bite of hot gingerbread, when he can get it. So shake it in, dear. That will do. Now, what are you going to put in it, Tilly, besides flour?"