The boys’ slippers were always ready on the hearth; and when the big boots were once off, they naturally settled down about the table, where the tall lamp, with its pretty shade of pressed autumn leaves, burned brightly, and the books and papers lay ready to their hands instead of being tucked out of sight in the closet.  They were beginning to see that “Merry’s notions” had some sense in them, since they were made comfortable, and good-naturedly took some pains to please her in various ways.  Tom brushed his hair and washed his hands nicely before he came to table.  Dick tried to lower his boisterous laughter, and Harry never smoked in the sitting-room.  Even Roxy expressed her pleasure in seeing “things kind of spruced up,” and Merry’s gentle treatment of the hard-working drudge won her heart entirely.

The girl was thinking of these changes as she watered her flowers, dusted the furniture, and laid the fire ready for kindling; and, when all was done, she stood a minute to enjoy the pleasant room, full of spring sunshine, fresh air, and exquisite order.  It seemed to give her heart for more distasteful labors, and she fell to work at the pies as cheerfully as if she liked it.

Mrs. Grant was flying about the kitchen, getting the loaves of brown and white bread ready for the big oven.  Roxy’s voice came up from the cellar singing “Bounding Billows,” with a swashing and scrubbing accompaniment which suggested that she was actually enjoying a “life on the ocean wave.”  Merry, in her neat cap and apron, stood smiling over her work as she deftly rolled and clipped, filled and covered, finding a certain sort of pleasure in doing it well, and adding interest to it by crimping the crust, making pretty devices with strips of paste and star-shaped prickings of the fork.

“Good-will giveth skill,” says the proverb, and even particular Mrs. Grant was satisfied when she paused to examine the pastry with her experienced eye.

“You are a handy child and a credit to your bringing up, though I do say it.  Those are as pretty pies as I’d wish to eat, if they bake well, and there’s no reason why they shouldn’t.”

“May I make some tarts or rabbits of these bits?  The boys like them, and I enjoy modelling this sort of thing,” said Merry, who was trying to mould a bird, as she had seen Ralph do with clay to amuse Jill while the bust was going on.

“No, dear; there’s no time for knick-knacks to-day.  The beets ought to be on this minute.  Run and get ’em, and be sure you scrape the carrots well.”

Poor Merry put away the delicate task she was just beginning to like, and taking a pan went down cellar, wishing vegetables could be grown without earth, for she hated to put her hands in dirty water.  A word of praise to Roxy made that grateful scrubber leave her work to poke about in the root-cellar, choosing “sech as was pretty much of a muchness, else they wouldn’t bile even;” so Merry was spared that part of the job, and went up to scrape and wash without complaint, since it was for father.  She was repaid at noon by the relish with which he enjoyed his dinner, for Merry tried to make even a boiled dish pretty by arranging the beets, carrots, turnips, and potatoes in contrasting colors, with the beef hidden under the cabbage leaves.