Uncle Josh, that's all. He hasn't any patience with me, and
makes me speak up impertinently to him. And the things they say about
mamma are perfectly shameful. I won't bear it now, I won't."

His sister's gentle hand touched his lips to stem the passionate
words.

"You remember, Tom," she said softly, "what mamma said to us. We were
to endure all such little trials, remembering that it is God who
sends them. Think how grieved she would be if she could hear us
grumbling so soon."

"I don't care; I can't help it," said the boy recklessly. "It isn't
anything for you to be good, Lucy; you are just like mamma--a kind of
saint, I think. For me it is just a long battle all day. If a fellow
conquered in the end, it would not matter; but as it is--O Lucy,
Lucy! why did mamma die? It was so easy to be happy and good when we
had her to love and help us. I wish I were dead too."

Poor, proud, passionate Tom! His sister could only put her gentle arm
about his neck and cry too, her heart so sorely re-echoed the painful
longing in his voice.

So the first day at Thankful Rest did not promise very brightly for
Tom and Lucy Hurst.

V.

SUNDAY

Saturday was the busiest day in the week at Thankful Rest. There was
churning to be done, extra cooking for Sunday, mending and darning,
and the weekly polishing of every bit of brass, and copper, and tin
in the establishment. Lucy rubbed at them till her arms ached,
without bringing them to the required height of brightness, and was
at last sent off to pick the few remaining gooseberries for a tart.
That was a piece of work much more to her liking, and she lingered so
long out in the sunshine that Aunt Hepsy came at last, and scolded
her long and shrilly; which took all the enjoyment away. Tom received
his lessons from Uncle Josh outside; and, judging from his face when
he came in at dinner-time, he had not found them particularly
agreeable. Tom Hurst was a dainty youth, in fact, and shrank from
soiling his fingers with the tasks allotted to him: and seeing that
grim Uncle Josh had not spared him, the forenoon had been one long
battle; for, try as he might, Tom could not keep a bridle on his
tongue.

"I guess I'll hev a pesky deal o' trouble with that young 'un,
Hepsy," his uncle said that night when the children had gone to bed.
"He doesn't take to farm work; an' he's that peart I durstn't speak
to him. Queer thing if we've got to keep the young upstart in
idleness."

"Idlene