Her studies, her friends, her room-mate, little Nellie Austin, the youngest pupil in the school the teachers, the school routine, household affairs-all were full of interest to Eunice, who had been a pupil herself long ago but she listened in silence to it all. Then Fidelia had her turn: nothing that she could tell could fail to interest her sister as to the months in which they had been separated. She told of the work which had occupied her, the books she had read, and the letters she had received and written, and enlarged on several items of neighbourhood news which she had only had time to mention in her letter. She had had visitors enough, and every one had been mindful and kind, from Judge Leonard, who had sent his sleigh to take her to church on stormy Sundays, to Jabez Ainsworth, who had shovelled her paths and fed her hens and cow all the winter, and left her nothing troublesome or toilsome to do. She said nothing of loneliness, however she called it restful quiet. The elder sister had something to tell about the quiet winter days, many of which she had spent alone. They had the long afternoon to themselves. “You have not seen many of the houses in the state,” said she. “I don’t believe there is so pleasant a house in all the state as this is,” said Fidelia gravely. Some association, sad or sweet, clung to every old-fashioned ornament and to every picture on the wall. A story could be told of oak chest and bookcase and bureau. Everything in it was old, and some of the things were ancient, and had a history. The utensils were all in the “sink room” which opened near the back door, and the soil was nowhere.Īll the house was beautiful in its perfect neatness. There were pretty muslin curtains on the windows, and pictures on the walls and except for the stove that stood against the chimney-place one might easily have mistaken the room, and called it the parlour, for there was no trace of kitchen utensil or kitchen soil to be seen. There was a “secretary” of dark wood, which might have “come over in the Mayflower” between the windows, with a bookcase above it there were a tall clock and two carved armchairs, a chintz-covered sofa which looked new beside the rest of the things, and a rocking-chair or two. It was the winter kitchen and the summer dining-room-a beautiful room, perfect in neatness and simplicity, and in the tasteful arrangement of its old-fashioned furniture. It was a very simple meal, and it was spread in the room in which it was prepared. Fidelia laid the table, talking all the time as she went from pantry to cupboard and Eunice listened as she prepared the dinner with her own hands-as she did every day, for there was no “help” in the house. And I can scarcely wait to hear all you have to tell me.” Now I will get dinner if you will tell me what to do. “Yes and ten days in the garden will do more good to your summer work than ten days at your books could do. I am glad I came: I can help in the garden.” And I got homesick when I saw the other girls going. Was it because you thought I was sick that you came home, dear?” But he has gone away, and I have my class again. He has done good work among the boys on Sundays and week-days too. He was glad to take it and he is a born teacher. Fuller-the new teacher-could take it as well as not. I thought I had better give it up in the beginning of the winter, as I could not be quite regular, because of the bad roads. “Yes, I gave it up for a while, but I have taken it again. But you don’t seem to have been about among the neighbours as much as usual, and you have given up your class in the Sunday school.”
“No one has written, in so many words, that you were sick. Who has been telling that I have not been well?” I have been about all the winter pretty much as usual. “Are you really well, Eunice? You don’t look very well,” said Fidelia, kneeling down beside her sister, and looking wistfully into her face. Published by Good Press, 4064066141127 Table of Contents