“Very well, suppose I should make such a very rude and unmotherlike reply, fiddlesticks and nonsense would not shoot you, would they?”

At which sentence Alfred stopped kicking his heels against the door, and laughed.

“Tell us all about it,” continued Ester, following up her advantage.

“Nothing to tell, much, only all the folks are going a sail on the lake this afternoon, and going to have a picnic in the grove, the very last one before snow, and I meant to ask mother to let us go, only how was I going to know that Mrs. Carleton would get sick and come away down here after her before daylight; and I know she would have let me go, too; and they’re going to take things, a basketful each one of ’em—­and they wanted me to bring little bits of pies, such as mother bakes in little round tins, you know, plum pies, and she would have made me some, I know; she always does; but now she’s gone, and it’s all up, and I shall have to stay at home like I always do, just for sick folks.  It’s mean, any how.”

Ester smothered a laugh over this curious jumble, and asked a humble question: 

“Is there really nothing that would do for your basket but little bits of plum pies?”

“No,” Alfred explained, earnestly.  “Because, you see, they’ve got plenty of cake and such stuff; the girls bring that, and they do like my pies, awfully.  I most always take ’em.  Mr. Hammond likes them, too; he’s going along to take care of us, and I shouldn’t like to go without the little pies, because they depend upon them.”

“Oh,” said Ester, “girls go, too, do they?” And she looked for the first time at the long, sad face of Julia in the corner.

“Yes, and Jule is in just as much trouble as I am, cause they are all going to wear white dresses, and she’s tore hers, and she says she can’t wear it till it’s ironed, cause it looks like a rope, and Maggie says she can’t and won’t iron it to-day, so; and mother was going to mend it this very morning, and—.  Oh, fudge! it’s no use talking, we’ve got to stay at home, Jule, so now.”  And the kicking heels commenced again.

Ester pared her last potato with a half troubled, half amused face.  She was thoroughly tired of baking for that day, and felt like saying fiddlesticks to the little plum pies; and that white dress was torn cris-cross and every way, and ironing was always hateful; besides it did seem strange that when she wanted to do some great, nice thing, so much plum pies and torn dresses should step right into her path.  Then unconsciously she repeated: 

  “Content to fill a little space
    If Thou art glorified.”

Could He be glorified, though, by such very little things?  Yet hadn’t she wanted to gain an influence over Alfred and Julia, and wasn’t this her first opportunity; besides there was that verse:  “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do—.”  At that point her thoughts took shape in words.