e would, I think, have managed better than Mell did for the first
half of that morning.

First she got breakfast, only bread and milk and baked potatoes, but
there is a wrong as well as a right way with even such simple things,
and Mell really did all very cleverly. She swept the kitchen, strained
the milk, wound the clock. Then, as a sound of twittering voices began
above, she ran up to the children, washed and dressed, braided the red
pigtails, and got them downstairs successfully, with only one fight
between Tommy and Isaphine, and a roaring fit from Arabella Jane, who
was a tearful child. After breakfast, while the little ones played on
the door-steps, she tidied the room, mended the fire, washed plates and
cups, and put them away in the cupboard, wrung out the dishcloth
according to orders, and hung it on its nail. When this was finished she
looked about with pride. The children were unusually peaceful;
altogether, the day promised well. "Mother'll not say that I'm a
good-for-nothing girl _this_ time," thought Mell, and tried to recollect
what should be done next.

The kerosene can caught her eye.

"I'll clean the lamp," she said.

She had never cleaned the lamp before, but had seen her step-mother do
it very often. First, she took the lamp-scissors from the table drawer
and cut the wick, rather jaggedly, but Mell did not know that. Then she
tipped the can to fill the lamp. Here the misfortunes of the day began;
for the can slipped, and some of the oil was spilled on the floor. This
terrified Mell, for that kitchen-floor was the idol of Mrs. Davis's
heart. It was scrubbed every day, and kept as white as snow. Mell knew
that her step-mother's eyes would be keen as Blue Beard's to detect a
spot; and, with all the energy of despair, she rubbed and scoured with
soap and hot water. It was all in vain. The spot would not come out.

"I'll put a chair there," thought Mell. "Then perhaps she won't see it
just at first."

"I want that scissors," cried Tommy from the door.

"You can't have it," replied Mell, hurrying them into the drawer. "It's
a bad scissors, Tommy, all oily and dirty. Nice little boys don't want
to play with such dirty scissors as that."

"Yes, they do," whined Tommy, quite unconvinced.

"Now, children," continued Mell, "I'm going upstairs to make the beds.
You must play just here, and not go outside the gate till I come down
again. I shall be at the window, and see you all the time. Will you
pro