It seemed to her an interminable dull tragedy; this graceful, eager, black-eyed woman, spending what to the girl was literally a lifetime, in the conscientious performance of duties she did not love.
She knew her mother's idea of duty, knew the clear head, the steady will, the active intelligence holding her relentlessly to the task; the chafe and fret of seeing her husband constantly attempting against her judgment, and failing for lack of the help he scorned.

Young as she was, she realized that the nervous breakdown of these later years was wholly due to that common misery of "the square man in the round hole." She folded her finished sheet in accurate lines and laid it away--taking her mother's also.

"Now you sit still for once, Mother dear, read or lie down.

Don't you stir till supper's ready." And from pantry to table she stepped, swiftly and lightly, setting out what was needed, greased her pans and set them before her, and proceeded to make biscuit.
Her mother watched her admiringly.

"How easy you do it!" she said.