“Must I put this by?” said Lily, looking sadly at her pen-wiper.
“For a while, dear—only for a while. I shall always look with more pleasure at my beautiful present when I remember that my Lily would not let her own will come before her duty and her love to her mother.”
The pen-wiper was replaced in the box, and I felt myself hastily run into the dress.
“I will sit beside you while you work,” said George, “and tell you a story to amuse you.”
“A story! a story!” exclaimed Eddy, running up to his brother in high glee at the word.
“Oh, Eddy! what have you been about?—pulling the horse-hair out of the chair!”
“He is always at some mischief,” said Lily.
“I think,” observed George, “that it must be because he is idle, and cannot keep those little fingers still. Now, Eddy, would you not rather be a comfort to mamma, and help her?”
“I do help mamma!” exclaimed the little boy, with a look of injured innocence; “I helped her a great deal to pack her box; I wish mamma had a box to pack every day.”
“Perhaps mamma would not join in that wish. But if there is not a box to pack, here is a great skein of wool to wind. Will you hold it on your hands, little man, while I try to find out the knot?”
“He’ll let it slip off to a certainty!” cried Lily; “you had much better put it over a chair.”
“Will you let it slip off, Eddy,” said his brother, “and spoil all the skein for mamma?”
“I’ll hold it as tight—as tight as a drum!” cried the child, indignant at his carefulness being doubted. “I will be useful—I will help mamma!” his face quite flushed as he spoke.
“You’ll be her comfort, Eddy; I’m sure of it,” said George. “Now, softly; you need not stretch it so hard; just hold your hands a little nearer to the light; I can wind all the time that I am telling the story.”
“Oh, how nice it will be! how happy we are! What shall the story be about?” cried Eddy.
“Let me see,” said George, shaking out a knot. “Why, Lily, how famously you are getting on with your hole! We shall be puzzled to find out the place where it was. I think that, in compliment to your work, I will tell you a story of a needle and a compass.”
“Of a needle!—oh, what fun!” cried little Eddy. A jovial little fellow he was, and very merry sounded his laugh; but it was not merrier than mine, if the children could have heard it; for never had it entered my thoughts for a moment that any one would ever make a story about me; and I felt amazingly complimented by the idea.