Matthew, who was probably sitting quietly by the hearth purring out his afternoon nap. Well, little girl, I'm glad you didn't have to answer Aunt Amelia's questions. Leave her to me. I'll shoulder all the blame and exonerate you. Don't worry."
" But, David," began Marcia, in her troubled tone, " Miranda ought not to tell things that are not exactly true. How can I teach her ? "
"Well, Miranda's standards are not exactly right, and we must try little by little to raise them higher, but I'll miss my guess if she doesn't manage some way to protect you, even if she does have to tell the truth."
And thus it was that Miranda Griscom became a fixture in the household of David Spafford, and did about as she pleased with her master and mistress and the baby, because she usually pleased to do pretty well.
The years had gone by and little Rose Spafford had grown into a lovely, laughing, dimpled child with charming- ways that reminded one of her mother, and Miranda was her devoted slave.
On the Sunday after Phoebe Deane's birthday, David and Marcia, and Rose, and Miranda were all in church together. Little Rose, in dainty pantalettes and frock, with her rebellious curls brushed smoothly, her fat hands folded demurely in her lap, sat between her mother and Miranda, and waited for the sugared caraway seeds that she knew would be sure to be dropped occasionally into her nicely starched lap if she were good. David sat at the end of his pew, happy and devout, with Marcia, sweet and worshipful, beside him, and Miranda alert, one eye on her worship, the other on what might happen about her—or was it, quaint soul, but her way of watching for an opportunity to do good in her way?
Across the aisle the sweet face of Phoebe Deane attracted her attention. It was clouded with trouble. Miranda's keen eyes read that at once. Miranda had often noticed that about Phoebe Deane, and wondered, but there were so many other people that Miranda knew better to look after, that Phoebe Deane had heretofore not received her undivided attention.
But this particular morning Phoebe looked so pretty in her buff merino, which after much hesitation she had finally put on for church because her old church dress was so exceedingly shabby, that Miranda was all attention at once. Miranda, who had always been homely and red-haired and freckled, whose clothes had most of them been made over from Hannah Heath's cast-off wardrobe, yet loved beautiful things and beautiful people, and Phoebe, with her brown hair and deep, starry eyes, seemed like a lovely picture to her in the buff merino and with her face framed in its neat straw bonnet. The bonnet Miranda had seen for two or three summers past, hut the frock was new, and a thing of beauty; therefore she studied its every detail and rejoiced that her position in the pew gave her a pretty good view of the young girl across the aisle, for something was wrong with the hinge of the door of Albert Deane's pew, and it stood open wide.
As her eyes traveled over Phoebe’s frock they came finally to the face, so grave and sweet and troubled, as if already life was too filled with perplexities to have much joy left in it. Her keen gaze detected the droop to the pretty lips and the dark lines under the eyes; and then she looked at the sharp lines of Emmeline's sour face with its thin, pursed lips, and decided that Emmeline was not a pleasant woman to live with. Alma, preening herself in her Sunday clothes with her self-conscious smirk, was not a pleasant child, either, and she wondered if Phoebe could possibly take any pleasure in putting on her little garments for her, and planning surprises, and plays, the way she did for Rose. It seemed impossible. Miranda, the homely, looked down tenderly at the little Rose, and then gratefully toward David and Marcia at the end of the pew, and pitied the beautiful Phoebe, wishing for her the happiness that had come into her own barren life.
The service was
" But, David," began Marcia, in her troubled tone, " Miranda ought not to tell things that are not exactly true. How can I teach her ? "
"Well, Miranda's standards are not exactly right, and we must try little by little to raise them higher, but I'll miss my guess if she doesn't manage some way to protect you, even if she does have to tell the truth."
And thus it was that Miranda Griscom became a fixture in the household of David Spafford, and did about as she pleased with her master and mistress and the baby, because she usually pleased to do pretty well.
The years had gone by and little Rose Spafford had grown into a lovely, laughing, dimpled child with charming- ways that reminded one of her mother, and Miranda was her devoted slave.
On the Sunday after Phoebe Deane's birthday, David and Marcia, and Rose, and Miranda were all in church together. Little Rose, in dainty pantalettes and frock, with her rebellious curls brushed smoothly, her fat hands folded demurely in her lap, sat between her mother and Miranda, and waited for the sugared caraway seeds that she knew would be sure to be dropped occasionally into her nicely starched lap if she were good. David sat at the end of his pew, happy and devout, with Marcia, sweet and worshipful, beside him, and Miranda alert, one eye on her worship, the other on what might happen about her—or was it, quaint soul, but her way of watching for an opportunity to do good in her way?
Across the aisle the sweet face of Phoebe Deane attracted her attention. It was clouded with trouble. Miranda's keen eyes read that at once. Miranda had often noticed that about Phoebe Deane, and wondered, but there were so many other people that Miranda knew better to look after, that Phoebe Deane had heretofore not received her undivided attention.
But this particular morning Phoebe looked so pretty in her buff merino, which after much hesitation she had finally put on for church because her old church dress was so exceedingly shabby, that Miranda was all attention at once. Miranda, who had always been homely and red-haired and freckled, whose clothes had most of them been made over from Hannah Heath's cast-off wardrobe, yet loved beautiful things and beautiful people, and Phoebe, with her brown hair and deep, starry eyes, seemed like a lovely picture to her in the buff merino and with her face framed in its neat straw bonnet. The bonnet Miranda had seen for two or three summers past, hut the frock was new, and a thing of beauty; therefore she studied its every detail and rejoiced that her position in the pew gave her a pretty good view of the young girl across the aisle, for something was wrong with the hinge of the door of Albert Deane's pew, and it stood open wide.
As her eyes traveled over Phoebe’s frock they came finally to the face, so grave and sweet and troubled, as if already life was too filled with perplexities to have much joy left in it. Her keen gaze detected the droop to the pretty lips and the dark lines under the eyes; and then she looked at the sharp lines of Emmeline's sour face with its thin, pursed lips, and decided that Emmeline was not a pleasant woman to live with. Alma, preening herself in her Sunday clothes with her self-conscious smirk, was not a pleasant child, either, and she wondered if Phoebe could possibly take any pleasure in putting on her little garments for her, and planning surprises, and plays, the way she did for Rose. It seemed impossible. Miranda, the homely, looked down tenderly at the little Rose, and then gratefully toward David and Marcia at the end of the pew, and pitied the beautiful Phoebe, wishing for her the happiness that had come into her own barren life.
The service was
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