Travilla, or some one of
the relatives, had taken her out for a drive.
One afternoon about the last of November, Molly, weary of sewing and
reading, weary inexpressibly weary, of her confinement and enforced
quietude, was gazing longingly down the avenue, wishing that some one
would come to take her out for an airing, when the door opened and her
mother came in dressed for the open air, in hat, cloak and furs.
"I want you to button my glove, Molly," she said, holding out her wrist,
"Rachel's so busy on my new silk, and you have nothing to do. What a
fortunate child you are to be able to take your ease all the time."
"My ease!" cried Molly bitterly, "I'd be gladder than words can tell to
change places with you for awhile."
"Humph! you don't know what you're wishing; the way I have to worry over
my sewing for four besides myself, is enough to try the patience of a
saint. By the way, it's high time you began to make yourself useful in
that line. With practice, you might soon learn to accomplish a great deal,
having nothing to do but stick at it from morning to night."
Molly was in the act of buttoning the second glove.
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