pair of
scissors in it was swung over her arm.

"Of course you'll not do kitchen work, my chicken," she said gaily;
"slip on your hat and come and gather roses with me. It's little enough
of you home your get--that little shall not be spoilt by ashes and dust.

"It's Mary's work, and Betty can see that she does it well."

Betty stalked into the kitchen and regarded the fireplace in gleeful
gloom, sitting down in front of it and staring into the heart of the
small wood fire.

Mary, the maid-of-all-work, took her duties in a very haphazard way. She
had no particular time for doing anything, and no particular place for
keeping anything. And alas! it is to be regretted her mistress was the
last woman in the world to train her in the way she should go.

To-day she had taken it into her head to try the effect of a few bows of
blue ribbon upon her cherry-coloured straw hat, before the breakfast
things were washed or the sweeping and scrubbing done. But the
washing-up belonged to Betty.

Outside in the garden Mrs. Bruce was drawing Dorothea's attention to the
scent of the violets and mignonette, and her gay voice caused Betty to
sigh heavily.

"If my own mother had lived," she said gloomily, "I too might gather
flowers. But what am I?--the family drudge!"

Cyril entered the back door, his arms piled up with firewood.

"I'm getting sick of chopping wood," he said grumblingly, "it's all very
well to be you and stay in a nice cool kitchen. How'd you like it if you
had to be me and stay chopping in the hot sun? I know what _I_ wish."

"What?" asked Betty, glancing round her "nice cool kitchen" without any
appreciation of it lighting her eyes.

"Why, I wish mother had never run away and made grandfather mad. And I
wish he'd suddenly think he was going to die, and say he wanted to adopt
me."

"How about me? Why shouldn't he adopt me?" demanded Betty.

"'Cause I'm the only son," said Cyril. "He's got his pick of four girls,
but if he wants a boy there's only me."

He went outside and loaded himself with wood once more.

"Cecil Duncan's father gives him threepence a week, and he doesn't have
to do anything to earn it," he said when he came in again. "He says
every Monday morning his father gives him a threepenny bit and his
mother's _always_ giving him pennies."

"H'em," said Cinderella, and fell to work sweeping up the hearth
vigorously. Her own grievances faded away, as she looked at
Cyril's--which was a way they