There were four children younger than she: Albert, Lottie, Addie and Mary; and Leonard was a year older. But he was only a boy, and boys are no good at keeping house. Little Bernice had heard her father tell her Aunt Maud that Bernice would soon be old enough to keep house, and then he would gather all the children in again and keep them together. Aunt Maud took little Addie and baby Mary to care for, and Bernice was sent to live with her grandmother, who had lately become a widow in very poor circumstances. Bernice seemed to realize the situation and was perfectly satisfied. Her father was working in the lumber woods, and her brothers and sisters were scattered like autumn leaves. She was so anxious to become ten years old and gather them all under her little wings. What a laudable ambition! Dear God, what an age to feel such motherly cares! Where would there be room to crowd in a few years of innocent childhood? I wish this was only a story. I wish the child I am writing about was only a creature of my imagination. But it is all too painfully true. She sat in that chair over yonder only yesterday, and told me all about it. Told of it all in gladness and with the sunshine of hope beaming on her little child soul. But every word sent a pang of regret to my heart. This child was giving herself as a willing sacrifice to love and duty. Dear God, what an age to entertain such great resolutions—only seven years! “Yes,” she said, childishly, “I must not lose a day at school, ’cause I’m goin’ to quit at ten and go to keepin’ house for papa. I kin read now, and kin write purty good, only I forgit how to spell the big words. But I kin learn a hull lot before I’m ten. It’s three long years off. I wish it wasn’t so long, ’cause I want to git the children all together and be their little mother. Mary isn’t quite two years old yit, but she’ll be five when I git to be her mother, and she’ll know how to do a hull lot of work for me. We’re going to live out in the country—out on a mountain farm, and there’ll be cows to milk and pigs and chickens to feed, but the children will all help. Maybe we’ll take grandma along, but she says she’ll have to keep house for Uncle Jim and Uncle Herman, unless they git married and set up for themselves. “Yes, I must be goin’. Grandma will be waitin’ supper for me. No, sir, I haven’t seen brother Albert and Leonard and sister Lottie for over a year. But it won’t be long until we all git together. Grandma is goin’ to teach me how to bake next summer. She talks to me about keepin’ house for papa, and she cries about it, and kisses me and says, ‘God bless you, child!’ Do you s’pose God will?”