Ethelyn's Mistake

It did occur to Mrs. Markham that there might be a great propriety in

Eunice's waiting for once, inasmuch as there were plates to change, and

custard pie and minced, and pudding, to be brought upon the table, for

they were having a great dinner, but the good woman did not dare hint at

such a thing, so the seven plates were put upon the table, and the china

cups brought from the little cupboard at the side of the chimney, and

the silver teapot, which was a family heirloom, and had been given Mrs.

Markham by her mother, was brought also and rubbed up with what Eunice

called a "shammy," and the pickles, and preserves, and honey, and cheese

and jellies, and the white raised biscuits and fresh brown bread, and

shredded cabbage and cranberry sauce, with golden butter, and pitchers

of cream, were all arranged according to Eunice's ideas. The turkey was

browning nicely, the vegetables were cooking upon the stove, the odor of

silver-skinned onions pervading the entire house. Eunice was grinding

the coffee, and the clock said it wanted but half an hour of car-time,

when Mrs. Markham finally left the kitchen and proceeded to make

her toilet.

Eunice's had been made some time ago, and the large-sized hoop she wore

had already upset a pail and dragged a griddle from the stove hearth,

greatly to the discomfiture of Mrs. Markham, who did not fancy hoops,

though she wore a small one this afternoon under her clean and

stiffly-starched dress of purple calico. St. Paul would have made her an

exception in his restrictions with regard to women's apparel, for

neither gold nor silver ornaments, nor braided hair, found any tolerance

in her. She followed St. Paul strictly, except at such times as the good

people in the Methodist church at the east end of the village held a

protracted meeting, when she deviated so far from his injunction as to

speak her mind and tell her experience.

She was a good and conscientious woman, practicing what she preached,

and believing more in the inner than the outer adorning; but she looked

very neat this afternoon in her purple calico, with a motherly white

apron tied around her waist, and her soft, silvery hair combed smoothly

back from her forehead and twisted in a knot behind, about the size of a

half dollar. This knot however, was hidden by the headdress which

Melinda had made from bits of black lace and purple ribbon, and which,

though not at all like Aunt Barbara's Boston caps, was still very

respectable, and even tasteful-looking. Almost too tasteful, Mrs.

Markham thought, as she glanced at the tiny artificial flower tucked in

among the bows of ribbon. But Mrs. Markham did not remove the flower,

for it was a daisy, and it made her think of the Daisy who died fourteen

years ago, and who, had she lived till now, would have been

twenty-eight.