“Finish that pie, and watch the fire; don’t let that cake burn, nor the cranberries.”

Alas! for Margaret.  She became so absorbed in rolling the upper crust of the mince pie, and in trying to cut a beautiful pine-tree on it, that she forgot all about the fire, and the cake, and the cranberries.  An odour, not savoury, came from the stove.  Margaret rushed out, but it was too late; the cranberries sent up a dense black smoke, and were burned fast to the new porcelain kettle, and, horrors! on opening the oven door, the fruit-cake was a sight to behold—­as black as a hat, and an ominous-looking valley in the centre of it!

“Flo! go tell mother to come here quick!” screamed Margaret.  “Everything has gone to destruction.”

Any housekeeper can well imagine what a person, who did not hold firm rule over nerve and tongue would say under such aggravations.  Although her mother’s words stung like scorpions, Margaret did not attempt to excuse herself this time, for she felt keenly that she had been guilty of great neglect, and she would have told her mother so if the bitter words had not made her hard and sullen.  The longer her mother talked, the less she felt that she cared for the consequences of her fault.  This Saturday’s work was unusual, not only because Christmas was near at hand, but an old aunt of Mrs. Murray’s was coming from Philadelphia to make a visit.  She had not visited her niece in many years.  She also used to be a model housekeeper, and Mrs. Murray was anxious that everything should appear to the best advantage.  At last the toil and strife of that day was over, the work was all done up and the girls sought their own room.

“Maggie,” said Florence, “what do you suppose Aunt Deborah will bring us for Christmas presents?” Florence braided her golden locks as she talked, her face cheerful as usual.  The trials of that day had left no mark on her sunny face.  Not so with Maggie; the frown was still on her forehead, and she flung herself on the lounge in a despairing sort of way as she answered, “I’m sure I don’t know nor care either, whether I ever get another present in my life.”

“Why, Maggie!  What’s the matter?”

“The matter is that I am tired of this awful life.  I work, work, and be scolded all the time.  I wish Aunt Deborah was in Jericho, or anybody else that is coming to make more work for us.  I could stand the work, though, but I can’t stand scolding all the time.  Mother hasn’t said a pleasant word to me to-day.”

“Sh—­h!” said Florence.  “Mother is sick and nervous.  Don’t you think if—­if you wouldn’t provoke mother so much it would be better?  And then maybe”—­Florence was almost afraid to speak her next thought—­“don’t you think you answer back a good deal sometimes?”