_IDA'S THUMB._
"MOTHER," said Eunice, "Mrs. Murray has not sent her washing this week.
It will make us very late with it, baby-things take so much time."
"She will not send it," replied Mrs. Riker quietly. "I saw Mary take
it to Sarah Southmayd's, and when I met Mrs. Murray in the street and
asked her about it, she told me quite shortly that she had concluded to
make a change."
"But didn't you ask her what was the reason?" asked Eunice. "I should.
Mrs. Murray has given as her work ever since she has lived here, and I
don't believe she would change without a good reason."
"I suppose I ought to have done so," replied Mrs. Riker in rather an
apologetic tone, "but her manner was so disagreeable that I could not
make up my mind to say any more. She is a very silly sort of woman, I
think."
"She may be silly, but the loss of her two dollars a week will make a
large hole in our income," said Eunice. "If she had any fault to find,
why didn't she come and find it like a reasonable woman?"
"Because she is not a reasonable woman, I suppose. There is one comfort
about it: you will have all the more time for your work. How does it
get on?"
"Finely," replied Eunice, holding up the wide strip on which she
was engaged. "Mrs. Ferarra says she thinks I need not be afraid to
undertake the pillow-covers. I won't say 'pillow-shams,' for I think it
is a disagreeable word."
"Doesn't the work try your eyes?"
"Not more than plain hand-sewing—not so much as hemming ruffles, I
think. Don't you want me to carry Mrs. Henry Edgar's white dress home,
mother? I think it is quite dry."
"I should be glad if you would," replied her mother. "I don't like to
keep these expensive dresses in the house longer than is necessary."
Eunice was soon ready, and set out on her walk. On the way she met
Phebe Goodman and her cousin.
Phebe was a well-meaning girl, but weak and entirely under the
influence of whoever happened to be her dearest and most intimate
friend for the time being.
Eunice was well acquainted with both the girls, and was about to stop
and speak to them, when to her great surprise they walked straight on,
Phebe giving her the coolest possible nod and her cousin looking right
before her.
"What is the matter now?" thought Eunice, but she did not attach much
importance to the circumstance.
She delivered the parcel she had in charge, and Mrs. Henry Edgar
herself came down to speak to her.
"The dress is just lovely, just exquisite," said Mrs. Henry, who was a
warm-hearted little body and much given to superlatives. "Here is the
money, and I am so much obliged to you for bringing it up so soon! And
would you mind carrying home a basket of these apples to your mother?"
"I should be very glad to do so," said Eunice. "What beauties they are!"
"Yes, they are some of the first fruits of Judge Edgar's young orchard.
And will you please ask your mother to send up for some lace curtains
and other things early next week? You may be sure, Eunice, you and your
mother will always have my work, whatever anybody says."
"What do they say?" asked Eunice.
"Oh—Well, nothing of any consequence," replied the little lady, growing
as pink as an apple-blossom in her embarrassment. "They say, you know,
that Sarah Southmayd does lace curtains beautifully."
"She is a good laundress," replied Eunice, "but I should think she had
all the work she could do."
"She won't get mine, I know," said Mrs. Henry. "Well, good-bye, dear. I
hope your mother will like the apples, and if there is anything I can
do for you, let me know."
"Mrs. Edgar, would you mind giving me a slip of your ivy some time?"
asked Eunice. "I heard Mary say it came from Abbotsford."
"Oh yes. I cut it myself—at least I asked the gardener, and he cut
it for me. Be sure you take a good large piece,—there is plenty to
spare—and gather any flowers you like; they will soon be all gone, you
know.—Poor child! What a shame it is!" She added to the nurse as Eunice
took her leave. "I came near letting it all out."
"Why didn't you?" asked Catherine the nurse, an elderly Vermont woman
who had tended Mrs. Henry herself when she was a baby. "I think some
one ought to tell them."
"Oh, I don't know; it might not do any good. And, oh dear! I do so hate
to do disagreeable things and hurt people's feelings!"
"That's well enough, as far as it goes," replied Catherine, "but one
may carry it too far. However, there's plenty of people to do the other
thing."
Eunice was conscious of something a little unusual in Mrs. Henry
Edgar's manner, but she felt and appreciated her kindness. She cut a
modest branch of the beautiful white-veined ivy and gathered a few
flowers.
As she turned into the shady lane where Mrs. Van Zandt lived, she met
Amity Bogardus and Percy Denham, who both stopped to speak to her.
"Eunice, don't you want to do something disagreeable for me?" asked
Amity.
"What a charming and encouraging way you have of putting things,
Amity!" said Percy, laughing.
"Of course I do," said Eunice; "what is it?"
"Just to call on Ida Van Zandt and find out what state of forwardness
her work is in. The things must positively be all brought in at your
class-meeting next week, and from something Ida said, I am afraid hers
are not nearly ready. I would go myself, but grand-papa has dinner
company and Aunt Julia is laid up with sick headache; so I must go
straight home and see to things a little. Is that too much to ask?"
"Oh no. I was going to call and see Ida at any rate. But suppose the
work is not done?"
"Then she must have it done, that's all," replied Amity positively.
"Good-bye."
Eunice found Ida in rather an unamiable mood. Several things had
happened to ruffle her temper, which had been growing rather irritable
of late. Mrs. Barbara Van Zandt was ill, and Ida's mother had gone down
to spend several days with her, giving Ida a strict charge to touch no
other work till her missionary-sewing was finished.
"You promised to do this sewing, and you must keep your word," said
she. "Besides, you are getting altogether too much into the way of
beginning things and never finishing them. By the way, Ida, you had
better bring in your plants. The nights are growing cold, and we may
have a frost at any time."
Ida had fully intended to obey her mother's Injunction, though the
sight of her bundle of plain sewing had grown absolutely hateful to
her, as work neglected is apt to do. When her practising was finished,
she went up stairs and opened her drawer. There lay Aunt Barbara's
beautiful basket with all the materials for the Roman work quite
untouched. Ida took it out and unfolded the strip of fine gray linen.
How lovely it was with its graceful traced pattern and one corner
finished and cut out! Ida laid it over the red satin destined for the
lining. It was more ravishing than ever.
"I will just work a few stitches to see if I can do it," she said to
herself; "I am not sure I remember those Russian points exactly."
The few stitches were done, and then a few more, and then a point or
two, just to see if Ida remembered; and then the next point must be
reached to see how it was going to look; and, in short, Ida worked all
the afternoon till tea-time. Her conscience was by no means easy at the
disobedience, but she consoled herself, as so many others have done, by
saying, "It is only for once." The next afternoon it was the same. Ida
only meant to do a dozen stitches, just to keep her hand in, but the
dozen stitches used up the whole working-time, and Ethelind's garments
lay untouched.
"I suppose your mother will be home to-night?" said Jane as she set
Ida's dinner on the little table one day. "You won't have to eat alone
any more."
"To-night!" said Ida, startled. "Why no! This is Wednesday, and she was
not coming till Friday."
"This is Friday, as sure as you're born," returned Jane. "I'm glad the
time seems short; it shows you've had a good time."
"Friday!"
So it was. And her mother would be home that night, and there was her
work! Only two hours left to do it in! Sew as fast as she would, she
could not in that time overtake the three days she had spent over that
ensnaring Roman work lambrequin.
She hurried through her dinner and ran up stairs to her work-drawer.
The lambrequin lay on the top with three of its five points finished
and another begun. Ida folded it up and pulled out her plain sewing.
There was the whole of one garment and parts of two others to finish.
"Oh dear! How could I be such a fool?" she said to herself. "What will
mother say, and Miss Ackerman and the girls? I wish Ethelind Swift was
in Guinea! I haven't had a bit of comfort of my life these three weeks,
all on account of that dreadful mission-box. There!" As a ring was
heard at the door—"There is some one coming to interrupt me again."
Ida shut the drawer with a decided slam, and in doing so caught her
thumb between the sharp edge of the drawer and the bureau. Every one
knows how painful is such a pinch. Ida was nervous and irritated
already, and she burst into tears.
"Here is Eunice Riker to see you with some message from Miss Bogardus,"
said Jane, appearing at the door. "But what is the matter?"
"I pinched my thumb almost off in that old door," sobbed Ida. "Do get
some arnica and do it up for me."
Jane pitied and "poor-deared!" the little thumb, which was fast turning
black and blue. She produced the arnica, and did up the injured member
with the consoling prediction that the nail would probably come off,
and most likely Ida would have no use of her hand for a month at least.
"Shall I send that girl away or tell her to leave her message?"
"Oh, ask her to come up here, please," said Ida, who was recovering her
calmness.
"I don't know about that, miss," said Jane. "Folks do say she isn't
over and above honest."
"Nonsense!" returned Ida angrily. "Don't you let me hear you say such a
word or I'll tell mother directly. How dare you speak so of a good girl
like Eunice, and a church-member too?"
"It was your own cousin that said it first, anyhow, Miss Ida," retorted
Jane, who stood in no great awe of Ida.
"I don't care if she did; you need not say it after her. I wonder how
you would like it if any one were to repeat such a thing about you?
I'll tell mother if you say another word. Ask Miss Eunice to come up
here directly?"
"'Miss Eunice,' indeed!" muttered Jane as she departed on her errand.
"As to 'telling mother,' maybe I can tell her something as well as you."
The pain of her hurt thumb and her dispute with Jane had raised Ida's
color considerably, and given an embarrassment to her manner which she
strove in vain to overcome.
Eunice saw at once that something unusual was the matter.
"What has happened to you, Ida? What makes your cheeks so red?" asked
Eunice.
"I pinched my thumb almost off in the drawer, and Jane said something
that vexed me," answered Ida. "Didn't I hear Amity Bogardus's voice
just now? Why didn't she come in?"
"She was in a hurry, and she asked me to give you a message," replied
Eunice. "It was about your work. You know it is all to be brought in
next week, and she asked me to tell you to be sure and have yours done."
"I don't see how I can possibly do it," said Ida, dismayed and much
inclined to cry again. "I have pinched my thumb and cracked the nail
right in two through the middle, and I am sure I shall not be able to
use my hand for ever so long. Jane says the nail will come off. Oh,
Eunice, if you could only take the work and finish it for me!"
"I might, I suppose," said Eunice, considering. "My own work is
finished, and I shall not have anything special to do this week."
"Oh, I would be so much obliged!" exclaimed Ida. "I am sure. I can't
sew with this thumb. Just look at it."
"I should think not, indeed," said Eunice. "You must be very careful of
this, Ida, or you will have a bad time. I don't see how you could shut
the drawer so hard."
"It stuck and I gave it a shove, and then it gave way all at once. But
I hope my thumb won't keep sore a great while," continued Ida, thinking
of her lambrequin: "I have ever so much work laid out for Christmas.
And then there is my practising, but I don't care so very much about
that."
"That is the very part I should care about," said Eunice.
"Yes, because you have a real taste for music, but I don't think I
have; and I do so hate those tiresome scales and finger exercises! I
don't believe there is any need of them; do you?"
"I suppose there must be or the teachers would not insist upon them,"
replied Eunice. "You know Anita plays beautifully, but she spends three
quarters of an hour every day on her scales."
"You and Anita are great friends?"
"Yes, she and her mother have been very kind to me. Anita has taught me
to make the Mexican lace—like that she put on Ethelind's skirts, you
know. Oh, I forgot; you were not there."
"No, I went to New York, and Aunt Barbara kept me to go shopping with
her," replied Ida, blushing again as she remembered her subterfuge.
"Did you have a nice time?"
"Yes, of course, only Julia Hazleton got vexed at something and would
hardly speak to any one all the afternoon. Matilda Jenkins said it was
because every one else had done more than she, but I don't believe
that. I don't think it right to judge people in that way."
"I thought she finished her work?"
"So she did, and very nicely, but almost all the other girls had
something extra to bring in—something besides their work. Even little
Mary Edgar brought a couple of cambric handkerchiefs with worked
initials, which she bought and embroidered herself, and they were
really done beautifully."
"Dear little soul!" said Ida. "What did you have?"
"Only a pair of baby's socks that I earned by knitting for Mrs. Ray,"
replied Eunice. "You know I don't have much money.—By the way, Ida, how
are your plants?"
"Oh, very well," said Ida, feeling a sudden cold misgiving as she
spoke. "How are yours?"
"They are lovely," replied Eunice with animation. "Mother went out to
Cousin Garret Van Dyk's two or three weeks ago, and his daughter Gatty
sent me a great basket of maiden-hair fern roots. I put them in pots,
and they are doing beautifully. You know the maiden-hair does not grow
about here."
"You ought to have a greenhouse, you are so fond of plants," remarked
Ida.
"If I ought to have one, I suppose I shall have one. But please let me
have the work, Ida; I must be on my way home."
"Here it is, all done up together," said Ida, producing her basket.
"Take it in the basket. Just as it is."
"I can carry it better without, as I have one basket already," said
Eunice, taking out the bundle, but without undoing it. "You ought to
accomplish a great deal of work, Ida, you have so many pretty working
things. But people sometimes say, you know, 'The more tools the worse
workman.'"
"That is the way with me, I guess. Good-bye."
Eunice was no sooner gone than Ida put on her hat and ran hastily out
to see to her plants—those unlucky plants which she had never once
thought of since her mother went away. Alas! What a mournful spectacle!
There had been two or three cool nights, and one rather sharp frost
for the season. The beautiful coleus stood a mournful ruin, its rich
dark-red velvet leaves hanging flabbily and blackened on their stems or
lying scattered on the ground. The others were not very much better,
even the ivy looking forlorn and withered for want of water. Ida burst
into fresh tears and sobbed heartily.
"There ain't any use in crying over them, miss," said Lorinda the cook,
who had some plants of her own, which in their flourishing condition
presented a great contrast to poor Ida's. "Tears won't make 'em grow
again. It's another kind of water they wanted."
"You might have watered them when you did your own," sobbed Ida. "It's
too bad!"
"And so I should, but Mrs. Van Zandt gave particular orders not to,"
replied Lorinda. "It hurts my feelings to have plants abused, 'most
as much as if they was living critters; and it always does seem as if
they would feel. And you know I did put you in mind of 'em two or three
times, and you didn't like it a bit."
This was undeniably true, but it did not console Ida at all.
"There! Don't cry any more," said Lorinda kindly. "We'll set them in
the sink and give them a good soaking, and then I'll put them up in the
south attic for you, and maybe they'll come up. But you must see to 'em
every day if you want them to do anything. Plants is like babies—you
can't do for 'em once for all, but you've got to be fussing at 'em
every day.
"There! Don't cry any more, because your ma will be home very soon, and
you'll want to look pleasant for her. Go and wash your face and get
ready for tea, and I'll see to the plants this once. I was calculating
to take mine up before dark. Only, missy my dear, if you would only
learn to have a little perseverance, it would be such a good thing for
you and such a comfort to your ma! You're the only one she's got now,
you know, and when she gets an old lady, she'll have to depend on you.
And the Bible says, you know, 'Be not weary in well-doing.' There! I'd
run and get dressed now; it is only a few minutes to train-time."
"And what about your work?" said Mrs. Van Zandt when she had taken off
her bonnet and was seated at the tea-table. "Aunt Barbara asked about
the lambrequin, but I told her of your missionary-work, and she quite
approved of your finishing that first. She has sent you a wonderful
case of scissors to stimulate your industry, and some napkins which she
says you may hem for the box. But what ails your thumb?" she added,
noticing for the first time that Ida had her thumb wrapped up.
"Oh, I gave it a dreadful pinch in the drawer," said Ida. "The nail is
broken in two, and it aches so you can't think."
"I can think very easily," said Mrs. Van Zandt. "It must be very
painful. I suppose you have not done much sewing, then?"
"No, hardly any," replied Ida. "I knew I could not get the work done,
and Eunice Riker said she would do it as well as not; so I let her take
it."
"You must remember and make her some return," said her mother;
"Eunice's time is valuable."
"I did not like to offer to pay her," said Ida; "I was afraid of
hurting her feelings."
"Quite right," replied her mother; "but you can easily make it up to
her after a while—say at Christmas."
"And then, after, all, mamma, you know the work is for the
missionary-box."
"True, but it is your work, not hers."
"But I could not do it after I pinched my thumb, you know, mamma," said
Ida, feeling very small and guilty in her own eyes as she spoke.
"You had not hurt your thumb three weeks ago, my dear. If you had been
only reasonably industrious and persevering, you might have done every
bit of the sewing in a week, and your lambrequin also. There is no help
for it now, but I hope it will be a lesson to you.—Now, get my bag and
I will show you what Aunt Barbara has sent you."
Aunt Barbara's present was, as usual, valuable and well chosen, and
at another time Ida would have gone into raptures over it, but her
burdened conscience would not let her take any pleasure in anything,
and she was glad when bedtime came.
"What about your plants, Ida?" asked her mother. "Did you remember to
take them in? There was quite a frost last night."
"They are up in the attic, mamma, but they do not look very well.
Lorinda says I have let them get too dry."
"They will soon recover if that is all. Good-night, my love."
"I am getting to be a regular liar," said Ida to herself when she was
alone in her room. "Oh, how I wish I dared go and tell mamma all about
it!"
Just then there was a little knock at the door, and Jane entered. She
had been very much vexed by Ida's remarks to her in the afternoon, and
she thought she saw her way to a very satisfactory revenge, and also
to the establishment of a power over Ida which she might turn to good
account.
"So, Miss Ida, that is a fine way to get out of a scrape!" she began.
"What do you mean, Jane?" asked Ida, very much surprised.
"You know what I mean well enough," said Jane. "You let your ma think
you hurt your thumb three or four days ago, and that was the reason you
could not do your work; whereas you know that it was only this very
afternoon, and that you have sewed on your fancy-work every single day.
I heard all you said to her, so you needn't deny it." And Jane plumped
herself down in a manner decidedly independent, not to say impudent.
"That is no concern of yours," said Ida, her cheeks burning hotly with
shame and anger.
"I mean to make it mine," returned Jane. "I mean to go and tell your ma
the whole truth, and then see what she will say. That is, if you don't
make it worth my while to keep quiet. You haven't treated me very well
since I have been here—not to my thinking. You make a companion of that
Riker girl, just as if she was a lady, and you treat me as if I was no
more your equal than a dog. It is my turn now."
"I don't know what you mean by 'not treating you well,'" said Ida.
"Well, I know. You might have asked me to sit down and eat with you
while your ma was gone, and you might have put in a word for me when
that old Lorinda wouldn't let me go to the city. It is my turn now,"
repeated Jane in a tone of triumph. "I have got you under my thumb, and
I mean to keep you there."
If Jane had known Ida better, she would have gone more cunningly to
work. As it was, her words produced just the contrary effect from what
she intended. Ida rose up and began buttoning her dress, which she had
unfastened.
"What are you going to do?" asked Jane.
But Ida was spared the necessity of answer, for at that moment Mrs. Van
Zandt opened the door.
"Is anything the matter?" said she. "What are you doing here, Jane?"
"I came to see if Miss Ida didn't want some help in undressing, ma'am,"
answered Jane glibly, at the same time casting a significant and
threatening glance at Ida.
"That is not true, mamma," said Ida. "Jane came to threaten me that she
would tell you about me unless I would 'make it worth her while,' as
she says."
"'Tell me' about what?" said Mrs. Van Zandt, amazed, as well she might
be, for Ida was pale as death and Jane looked like a fury. "What does
all this mean?"
"I will tell you the whole, mamma, if you will only sit down and send
Jane away."
"I am sure, ma'am, I didn't mean any harm. Miss Ida didn't understand;
I was only joking," stammered Jane, wholly disconcerted, as persons of
her kind always are by straightforward dealing.
"You can go for the present," said Mrs. Van Zandt; "I will see you
to-morrow.—Now, Ida, sit down and let me know the meaning of this
strange scene."
With many tears, but without any reserve, Ida told her mother the
history of the past few days.
When she had finished, her mother sat in silence for a few minutes.
Then she said sadly,—
"Does my daughter realize that she has told her mother a lie?"
"Oh, mamma, not so bad as that!" said Ida.
"Just as 'bad as that,'" replied her mother. "You did not say in so
many words that you hurt your hand two or three days ago, but you so
worded your account as to give me that impression, and when I took up
the idea, you did not contradict me. You deceived me, Ida, and you
meant to deceive me. What is that but a lie?"
"It is a 'lie,' mamma; I see it now."
"Moreover, you broke your promise when there was nothing to hinder your
keeping it," continued Mrs. Van Zandt. "And that is also a 'lie,' and
one of the worst of 'lies.'"
"But I did not mean to break it, mamma; I am sure I didn't," said Ida,
taking refuge in her usual excuse.
"That is nonsense, Ida. How could you break it without meaning? You
promised the working committee to do this work, and you neglected to do
it. You promised to finish it, and you broke your word, that you might
amuse yourself with your lambrequin. How could you do that without
meaning it?"
"I didn't mean to work at the lambrequin more than a few minutes,
just to see if I remembered the stitches, but the time flew so fast,
it was gone before I thought," said Ida. "But then I know I ought not
to have touched it at all. I won't make any more false excuses. And
oh, mamma, I did tell one lie out and out. I said my head ached that
day I was at the dentist's—the day I stayed at Aunt Barbara's, you
know—and it was not true. It was only because I did not want to go to
the class-meeting. I was ashamed because my work was not done, and so I
made that an excuse to stay in town.
"Oh, mamma, I have been a very wicked girl! There seems to be no end to
my wickedness, now I think about it. You asked about my plants, and I
told you they were safe in the attic, and I never thought of them till
Eunice was here this afternoon. They are all spoiled with the frost,
but Lorinda said perhaps they would come up. I have not taken one bit
of care of them. Oh, mamma, I don't believe I shall ever be good for
anything in this world."
"You never will, Ida, either in this world or any other, unless you
turn over a new leaf," said her mother. "I have seen this long time
how your character was being injured by this habit of procrastination
and self-indulgence, but I had no idea matters had gone so far. Do you
realize what this habit has made of you? It has made you a liar, a
covenant-breaker, and a disobedient, undutiful child."
"Oh, mother, please don't speak so!" sobbed Ida, almost heartbroken by
these words, the most severe she had ever heard from her mother.
"They are very painful words, no doubt," said her mother—"painful both
for me to speak and for you to hear—but they are true and must be
spoken. Do you not see, yourself, that they are true?"
Ida could not answer for sobbing.
"Do you not see, Ida, that all your trouble grows out of one root—that
of self-indulgence?" her mother continued.
"I don't know what you mean, mamma."
"You will see if you consider a little. You have allowed yourself to
indulge this foolish habit of mind, falling in love with every new
undertaking, and disliking and neglecting the same as soon as the
novelty is worn off—doing things, in short, only just as long as they
please and amuse you, till the habit has grown to be like a part of
yourself. It has led you into extravagance in spending money, for one
thing. How much of your allowance has gone for working-materials which
lie useless in your drawer at this moment?"
"A great deal, I know, mamma."
"It has led you into a habit of making excuses—a habit almost always
destructive of truthfulness, as it has turned out in your case. You had
no good excuse for not finishing your work, and so you invented one; it
has led you, as I said, to disobey your mother; and I very much fear it
will lead you on till you make shipwreck of your life."
"But what can I do, mamma? Indeed, indeed, I do want to be a good girl,
but how can I change my disposition?"
"The first thing to do, Ida, is to pray for grace to see yourself as
you are—to give up any attempt to justify yourself in your own eyes.
Unless you do that, you are not likely to get any further."
"I think I do see that," said Ida. "I don't think any one could feel
meaner than I do."
"You must see that your sin is not only against yourself and your
neighbor, but against God," continued her mother. "You must go to him
with an honest and humble heart, confessing your sin, and asking for
pardon and cleansing in the name of the Lord Jesus. Pray that he will
give you 'a clean heart . . . and renew a right spirit within' you—that
he will give you grace to watch against and overcome your besetting
sin; for, Ida, you must watch as well as pray. You must watch in little
things as well as in great, denying yourself and taking up the cross
daily. If you do this honestly, there is no doubt that your heavenly
Father will pardon and help you and give you the victory at last."
"I will try, mamma. Indeed, I do want to be good, but I am afraid I
never shall have any perseverance."
"You never will without God's help, my dear. And, Ida, remember this
for your comfort—that you have only to persevere for one minute at a
time. You have not to do it all at once.—Now you had better go to bed
and to sleep, if you can. Does your thumb pain you very much?"
"Yes, mamma—worse and worse all the time. It hurts me all up my arm,
and makes me feel sick."
"I will put a soothing poultice on it, and if it is not better in the
morning, we will have the doctor to see it. A broken nail is rather a
serious matter sometimes."
But there was little sleep for Ida or her mother for that and a
good many succeeding nights. The thumb inflamed, and it was several
weeks before Ida regained the use of her hand at all. She had one
consolation, however: she sold her half-finished Roman work to Mrs.
Henry Edgar for a very good price, and with the money, she bought a
supply of nice stationery as a contribution to the box.
It was a gift involving some self-denial, for she liked the work, but,
as she said, "I could not sew, and I wanted to do something. Oh dear!"
added Ida, "I think if I am ever able to sew again, I shall be willing
to finish anything. I am so tired of sitting and holding my right hand
in my left!"