“No--not particularly,” her mother answered, “but there's plenty else to do.” And she went on with the long neat hemming. Diantha did the “over and over seam” up the middle. “What _do_ you do it for anyway, Mother--I always hated this job--and you don't seem to like it.” “They wear almost twice as long, child, you know. The middle gets worn and the edges don't. Now they're reversed. As to liking it--” She gave a little smile, a smile that was too tired to be sarcastic, but which certainly did not indicate pleasure. “What kind of work do you like best--really?” her daughter inquired suddenly, after a silent moment or two. “Why--I don't know,” said her mother. “I never thought of it. I never tried any but teaching. I didn't like that. Neither did your Aunt Esther, but she's still teaching.” “Didn't you like any of it?” pursued Diantha. “I liked arithmetic best. I always loved arithmetic, when I went to school--used to stand highest in that.” “And what part of housework do you like best?” the girl persisted. Mrs. Bell smiled again, wanly. “Seems to me sometimes as if I couldn't tell sometimes what part I like least!” she answered. Then with sudden heat--“O my Child! Don't you marry till Ross can afford at least one girl for you!” Diantha put her small, strong hands behind her head and leaned back in her chair. “We'll have to wait some time for that I fancy,” she said. “But, Mother, there is one part you like--keeping accounts! I never saw anything like the way you manage the money, and I believe you've got every bill since you were married.” “Yes--I do love accounts,” Mrs. Bell admitted. “And I can keep run of things. I've often thought your Father'd have done better if he'd let me run that end of his business.” Diantha gave a fierce little laugh. She admired her father in some ways, enjoyed him in some ways, loved him as a child does if not ill-treated; but she loved her mother with a sort of passionate pity mixed with pride; feeling always nobler power in her than had ever had a fair chance to grow. It seemed to her an interminable dull tragedy; this graceful, eager, black-eyed woman, spending what to the girl was literally a lifetime, in the conscientious performance of duties she did not love. She knew her mother's idea of duty, knew the clear head, the steady will, the active intelligence holding her relentlessly to the task; the chafe and fret of seeing her husband constantly attempting against her judgment, and failing for lack of the help he scorned. Young as she was, she realized that the nervous breakdown of these later years was wholly due to that common misery of “the square man in the round hole.” She folded her finished sheet in accurate lines and laid it away--taking her mother's also. “Now you sit still for once, Mother dear, read or lie down. Don't you stir till supper's ready.”