The time of sorrow came at twilight, when the boys separated for their homes,—­when Harry and Ernest clattered up to their mother’s rooms.  They could be boys still.  They might throw open the house-doors with a shout and halloo, and fling away caps and boots with no more than an uncared-for reprimand.  But Violet must go noiselessly through the dark entry, and, as she turned to close the door that let her into the parlor, she was greeted by Aunt Martha’s “Now do shut the door quietly!” As she lowered the latch without any sound, she would say to herself, “Why is it that boys must have all the fun, and girls all the work?” She felt as if she shut out liberty and put on chains.  Her work began then,—­to lay the tea-table, to fetch and carry as Aunt Martha ordered.  All this was pleasanter than the quiet evening that followed, because she liked the occupation and motion.  But to be quiet the whole evening, that was a trial!  After the tea-things were cleared away, she would sit awhile by the stove, imagining all sorts of excitements in the combustion within; but she could not keep still long without letting a clatter of shovel and tongs, or some vigorous blows of the poker, show what a glorious drum she thought the stove would make.  Or if Aunt Martha suggested her unloved and neglected dolls, she would retire to the corner with them inevitably to come back in disgrace.  Either the large wooden-headed doll came noisily down from the high-backed chair, where she had been placed as the Maid of Saragossa, or a suspicious smell of burning arose, when Joan of Arc really did take fire from the candle on her imaginary funeral-pile.  Knitting was no more of a sedative, though for many years it had stilled Aunt Martha’s nerves.  It was singular how the cat contrived always to get hold of Violet’s ball of yarn and keep it, in spite of Violet’s activity and the jolly chase she had for it all round the room, over chairs and under tables.  Even her father, during these long evenings, often looked up over his round spectacles, through which he was perusing a volume of the “Encyclopedia,” to wonder if Violet could never be quiet.

As she grew up, there was activity enough in her life, through which her temperament could let off its steam:  a large house to be cared for and kept in order, some of the lodgers to be waited upon, and Aunt Martha, with her failing strength, more exacting than ever.  Her evenings now were her happy times, for she frequently spent them in Mrs. Schroder’s room.  One of the economies in the Schroders’ life was that their pleasures were so cheap.  What with Harry’s genial gayety and Ernest’s spiritual humor, and the gayety and humor of the friends that loved them, they did not have to pay for their hilarity on the stage.  There were quiet evenings and noisy ones, and Violet liked them both.  She liked to study languages with Ernest; she liked the books from the City Library that they read aloud,—­romances that were taken for Mrs. Schroder’s pleasure, Ruskins which Ernest enjoyed, and Harry’s favorites, which, to tell the truth, were few.  He begged to be made the reader,—­otherwise, he confessed, he was in danger of falling asleep.