elessness of prevailing styles, with the new cape plainly in
mind, and Mrs. Farnshaw nudged her daughter's knee under the table
whenever Elizabeth seemed inclined to defensive retorts.

When Mr. Farnshaw had taken the milk pails on his arm and repaired to the
corral, however, Mrs. Farnshaw turned from a belated churning and
administered the caution in words:

"Don't ever say anything back to your pa, Lizzie; he gets worse and worse
all th' time."

Elizabeth considered the subject for some minutes. The wear and tear of
the discords of her mother's life she knew were far more responsible for
her mother's broken health than anything she did in the way of hard work.
It seemed a good time to begin the reforms upon which her heart was set.

"Ma, I've been thinking about you a good deal this winter," she began
slowly. "Something is wrong with us all." The girl thought again for a
moment. Her mother watched her with sharp attention and waited. Reforms
were not easy to discuss with her mother; they were very different,
Elizabeth and her mother. Elizabeth hardly dared express her longing to
reorganize their home. If only she could effect a reformation! Her heart
had been set on it all winter. She knew now how people _could_ live if
only they understood how to do it. Her help here was needed. When she
began to speak again it was very slowly, and with a careful consideration
of the words she was using.

"We ought all of us to be different. We go along day after day hating our
work, scolding and fretting at each other, and never really happy, any of
us, and I've been wondering why?"

Her mother eyed her closely. Something of the girl's mood stirred a
responsive chord.

"I've thought of it too," she said, "but I can't never tell why it is
though, unless"--she spoke slowly and Elizabeth was encouraged--"unless
it's because we don't never belong to ourselves. Now your pa wants t' run
th' house, an' th' farm, an' you children, an' me, an' everything, an' I'm
so tired, an' never have any help, that anybody'd be cross. Nobody ever
pities me, though. Here, take this dasher an' finish this here churnin'
for me."

Elizabeth took the dasher into her own hand and stood looking down
meditatively at the cream gathered about the hole in the churn lid. The
first sentence of her mother's remark struck her attention.

"Why can't folks belong to themselves?" she asked, letting the dasher rest
while she churned mental problems of greater mom