The third little missionary had the hardest time of all, and her first efforts were not much more satisfactory nor successful than the others.  Her father was away from morning till night, and then had his paper to read, books to keep, or “a man to see down town,” so that, after a hasty word at tea, he saw no more of the children till another evening, as they were seldom up at his early breakfast.  He thought they were well taken care of, for Miss Bathsheba Dawes was an energetic, middle-aged spinster when she came into the family, and had been there fifteen years, so he did not observe, what a woman would have seen at once, that Miss Bat was getting old and careless, and everything about the house was at sixes and sevens.  She took good care of him, and thought she had done her duty if she got three comfortable meals, nursed the children when they were ill, and saw that the house did not burn up.  So Maria Louisa and Napoleon Bonaparte got on as they could, without the tender cares of a mother.  Molly had been a happy-go-lucky child, contented with her pets, her freedom, and little Boo to love; but now she was just beginning to see that they were not like other children, and to feel ashamed of it.

“Papa is busy, but Miss Bat ought to see to us; she is paid for it, and goodness knows she has an easy time now, for if I ask her to do anything, she groans over her bones, and tells me young folks should wait on themselves.  I take all the care of Boo off her hands, but I can’t wash my own things, and he hasn’t a decent trouser to his blessed little legs.  I’d tell papa, but it wouldn’t do any good; he’d only say, ‘Yes, child, yes, I’ll attend to it,’ and never do a thing.”

This used to be Molly’s lament, when some especially trying event occurred, and if the girls were not there to condole with her, she would retire to the shed-chamber, call her nine cats about her, and, sitting in the old bushel basket, pull her hair about her ears, and scold all alone.  The cats learned to understand this habit, and nobly did their best to dispel the gloom which now and then obscured the sunshine of their little mistress.  Some of them would creep into her lap and purr till the comfortable sound soothed her irritation; the sedate elders sat at her feet blinking with such wise and sympathetic faces, that she felt as if half a dozen Solomons were giving her the sagest advice; while the kittens frisked about, cutting up their drollest capers till she laughed in spite of herself.  When the laugh came, the worst of the fit was over, and she soon cheered up, dismissing the consolers with a pat all round, a feast of good things from Miss Bat’s larder, and the usual speech:—­

“Well, dears, it’s of no use to worry.  I guess we shall get along somehow, if we don’t fret.”

With which wise resolution, Molly would leave her retreat and freshen up her spirits by a row on the river or a romp with Boo, which always finished the case.  Now, however, she was bound to try the new plan and do something toward reforming not only the boy’s condition, but the disorder and discomfort of home.