“My stockings, too, sister. There’s a great green grass stain on both of them, and grandmamma expects us to be so nice.”
Will coughed to choke down a sob.
“Perhaps you may have time to change them, Will. I will help you. But we must get the pantaloons all nicely done first.”
So this kind sister stitched, and taught unconsciously as she stitched, lessons of love and patience, lessons of cheerful helpfulness and sweet unselfishness, which Will never forgot.
More than once, in after life, when, in heedless pursuit of life’s roses, he had been wounded by its thorns, he remembered that sweet face of consolation, those dear hands held out to aid him, and all the sunshine and the song of that sweet summer afternoon, and fresh peace and hope came to him with the remembrance.
“It’s all finished now, the very last stitch; and now for the stockings. Let me see the spots.”
Will put his two heels firmly together, turned out his toes, pulled up his puffy pantaloons, and stooped his head and strained his eyes to look for them.
They were but little ones, after all, and a brisk rubbing with the handkerchief, and a judicious pulling down of the trouser bindings, almost concealed them. They were just in time with their repairs; for grandmamma’s yellow-wheeled carriage was coming up the avenue.
E. G. C.