HELEN'S CHOICE.
BY ANNIE HAMILTON DONNELL.
Helen set the baby down on the floor, and the pan of clothes-pins beside her. "There, now, we'll see," she said, gayly. She got down, too, and arranged the pins in an orderly little circle astride the pan's edge. They went way round, and then Helen, with a sweep of fingers, sent them all clattering into the pan again. The baby crowed in wide-mouthed, toothless glee.
"You do it now, baby—see, just as I do," Helen said.
She sprang lightly to her feet and went back to her dishes. The water was cold, and the teakettle almost empty, and mutton-chops did make such greasy plates. But Helen splashed in cheerfully. She was thinking of Uncle 'Gene's letter on the mantel-piece, and the final decision about it that very morning over the mutton-chops. It made her sing in sudden ecstatic anticipation. What did she care about cold dish-water and uncanny dishes, when she was going to— She filled out the thought with pantomimic action, running scales up and down the edge of the sink with dripping fingers, and executing intricate tuneless measures amid dying soapsuds.
"Helen, Helen!" called a sweet plaintive voice from the bedroom.
"Yes'm." The musical "selection" came to a quick stop. Helen hurried in, wiping her hands on her apron and rescuing the baby from an ignominious descent upon her nose on the way. "What is it, motherdie? is your head worse?" she asked, anxiously. "I'm afraid it's those noisy clothes-pins."
"No, dear, but there's a draught somewhere. I can feel it on my neck. And I wish you'd rub my shoulder again. It's unusually achy this morning."
Helen found the liniment bottle, and went to work with practised, gentle touch. It was one of the dear invalid's bad days, and she had not tried to get up. Her pale face looked up into Helen's with wistful appreciation of the loving care. She was thinking of Uncle 'Gene's letter too.
The clock out in the kitchen struck eleven ponderously as Helen set the bottle away and put the screen before the window. In half an hour the primary children would be home, and close on their heels the older ones. And what hungry, hurrying-scurrying little mortals they would be!