Ralph, the only son, a fine, tall young man, just out of his teens, had lately been taken into his father’s firm.  He was noble and true, though in a little danger on account of his fondness for company, which, not being gratified at home, was taking him away from its safe boundaries to clubs, and questionable company and amusements, much more than pleased his father; but Ralph declared he must have some pleasure—­“didn’t want to mope in his room alone after being hard at work all day.  As for home, there was nothing there, not even a good place to read—­gas at the top of the wall in the dingy old dining-room, and the girls always out—­or out of humour; he could do no better.”  Mr. Murray was uneasy:  “Their home was sort of dismal; what was the matter?” The two daughters, just coming up to womanhood, also missed many of the pleasant surroundings and sweet sympathy that other girls seemed to have in their homes.  With all her toil and doing, Mrs. Murray was letting her children slip, as it were, through her fingers.  The house was well furnished, but there was no room bright and warm, with music and books and papers, where they gathered in the evening and strengthened the home ties.

No servant could long please Mrs. Murray, so the comers and goers to that kitchen for many years were numerous.  Now she had hit upon a new plan.  She could carry out some good old-fashioned notions she had about training girls in domestic matters.  She would do her own work with such assistance as her daughters could give her out of school hours, calling in such help as they needed.  But the project did not work well:  the girls were always hurried; their school duties left very little time for anything else, so their household tasks were not always well or cheerfully performed, especially Margaret’s.  Her love for music amounted to a passion, and she grudged the time for practice; then their inexperience tried her mother’s patience sadly, and brought the inevitable scoldings, and made Margaret’s irritable nerves flash up to meet her mother’s.  But that Saturday morning that we began to tell about, it was such a very exasperating one all around.  One thing after another happened to make things go wrong, till it fairly seemed as if some evil genius had affairs under control.  The door opened and a sweet round face, framed by a sweeping cap, appeared.  A graceful young girl armed with broom and dustpan stepped lightly across the kitchen, deposited her broom in the corner, and proceeded to empty the contents of the pan in the fire.

“Florence,” spoke her mother sharply, “what do you mean by putting dust in the fire when you see this kettle of stewed cranberries on the stove?”

Florence started guiltily, spilling some of the dust on the stove in her agitation.