"When you've got through with the dishes, Diantha," he said coldly, "I'll hear about this proposition of yours." Diantha cleared the table, lowered the leaves, set it back against the wall, spreading the turkey-red cloth upon it.

She washed the dishes,--her kettle long since boiling, scalded them, wiped them, set them in their places; washed out the towels, wiped the pan and hung it up, swiftly, accurately, and with a quietness that would have seemed incredible to any mistress of heavy-footed servants.

Then with heightened color and firm-set mouth, she took her place by the lamplit table and sat still.
Her mother was patiently darning large socks with many holes--a kind of work she specially disliked.

"You'll have to get some new socks, Father," she ventured, "these are pretty well gone." "O they'll do a good while yet," he replied, not looking at them.

"I like your embroidery, my dear." That pleased her.