All these thoughts were dancing through Molly’s head, and when she left her cats, after a general romp in which even decorous Granny allowed her family to play leap-frog over her respectable back, she had made up her mind not to have yellow ribbons on her summer hat if she got a pink muslin as she had planned, but to finish off Boo’s last shirt before she went shopping with Merry.

It rained that evening, and Mr. Bemis had a headache, so he threw himself down upon the lounge after tea for a nap, with his silk handkerchief spread over his face.  He did get a nap, and when he waked he lay for a time drowsily listening to the patter of the rain, and another sound which was even more soothing.  Putting back a corner of the handkerchief to learn what it was, he saw Molly sitting by the fire with Boo in her lap, rocking and humming as she warmed his little bare feet, having learned to guard against croup by attending to the damp shoes and socks before going to bed.  Boo lay with his round face turned up to hers, stroking her cheek while the sleepy blue eyes blinked lovingly at her as she sang her lullaby with a motherly patience sweet to see.  They made a pretty little picture, and Mr. Bemis looked at it with pleasure, having a leisure moment in which to discover, as all parents do sooner or later, that his children were growing up.

“Molly is getting to be quite a woman, and very like her mother,” thought papa, wiping the eye that peeped, for he had been fond of the pretty wife who died when Boo was born.  “Sad loss to them, poor things!  But Miss Bat seems to have done well by them.  Molly is much improved, and the boy looks finely.  She’s a good soul, after all;” and Mr. Bemis began to think he had been hasty when he half made up his mind to get a new housekeeper, feeling that burnt steak, weak coffee, and ragged wristbands were sure signs that Miss Bat’s days of usefulness were over.

Molly was singing the lullaby her mother used to sing to her, and her father listened to it silently till Boo was carried away too sleepy for anything but bed.  When she came back she sat down to her work, fancying her father still asleep.  She had a crimson bow at her throat and one on the newly braided hair, her cuffs were clean, and a white apron hid the shabbiness of the old dress.  She looked like a thrifty little housewife as she sat with her basket beside her full of neat white rolls, her spools set forth, and a new pair of scissors shining on the table.  There was a sort of charm in watching the busy needle flash to and fro, the anxious pucker of the forehead as she looked to see if the stitches were even, and the expression of intense relief upon her face as she surveyed the finished button-hole with girlish satisfaction.  Her father was wide awake and looking at her, thinking, as he did so,—­

“Really the old lady has worked well to change my tomboy into that nice little girl:  I wonder how she did it.”  Then he gave a yawn, pulled off the handkerchief, and said aloud, “What are you making, Molly?” for it struck him that sewing was a new amusement.