affecting, and before long most of the girls began to cry. The penalty for their offence was announced to be the loss of recess for three weeks; but that wasn’t half so bad as seeing Mrs. Knight so “religious and afflicted”, as Cecy told her mother afterwards. One by one the sobbing sinners departed from the schoolroom.
When most of them were gone, Mrs. Knight called Katy up to the platform, and said a few words to her specially. She was not really severe, but Katy was too penitent and worn out to bear much, and before long was weeping like a water-spout, or like the ocean she had pretended to be.
At this, tender-hearted Mrs. Knight was so much affected that she let her off at once, and even kissed her in token of forgiveness, which made poor Ocean sob harder than ever. All the way home she sobbed; faithful little Clover, running along by her side in great distress, begging her to stop crying, and trying in vain to hold up the fragments of her dress, which was torn in at least a dozen places. Katy could not stop crying, and it was fortunate that Aunt Izzie happened to be out, and that the only person who saw her in this piteous plight was Mary, the nurse, who doted on the children and was always ready to help them out of their troubles.
On this occasion she petted and cosseted Katy exactly as if it had been Johnnie or little Phil. She took her on her lap, bathed the hot head, brushed the hair, put arnica on the bruises, and produced a clean frock, so that by tea-time the poor child, except for her red eyes, looked like herself again, and Aunt Izzie didn’t notice anything unusual.
For a wonder Dr. Carr was at home that evening. It was always a great treat to the children when this happened, and Katy thought herself happy when, after the little ones had gone to bed, she got Papa to herself, and told him the whole story.
“Papa,” she said, sitting on his knee, which, big girl as she was, she liked very much to do, “what is the reason that makes some days so lucky and others so unlucky? Now to-day began all wrong, and everything that happened in it was wrong; and on other days I begin right, and all goes right straight through. If Aunt Izzie hadn’t kept me in the morning I shouldn’t have lost my mark, and then I shouldn’t have been cross, and then perhaps I shouldn’t have got in my other scrapes.”
“But what made Aunt Izzie keep you, Katy?”
“To sew on the string of my bonnet, Papa.”
“But how did it happen that the string was off?”
“Well,” said Katy reluctantly, “I am afraid that was my fault, for it came off on Tuesday, and I didn’t fasten it on.”
“So you see we must go further back than Aunt Izzie for the beginning of this unlucky day of yours, Childie. Did you ever hear the old saying about. ‘For the want of a nail the shoe was lost’?”
“No, never—tell it to me!” cried Katy, who loved stories as well as when she was three years old.
So Dr. Carr repeated :—
“For the want of a nail the shoe was lost,
For the want of a shoe the horse was lost,
For the want of a horse the rider was lost,
For the want of the rider the battle was lost,
For the want of the battle the kingdom was lost,
And all for want of a horse-shoe nail.”
“Oh, Papa!” exclaimed Katy, giving him a great hug as she got off his knee, “I see what you mean! Who would have thought such a little speck of a thing as not sewing on my string could make a difference? But I don’t believe I shall get in any more scrapes, for I shan’t ever forget—
“‘For the want of a nail the shoe was lost.’”
But I am sorry to say that my poor, thoughtless Katy did forget, and did get into another scrape, and that no later than the very next Monday.
Monday was apt to be rather a stormy day at the Carr’s. There was the big wash to be done, and Aunt Izzie always seemed a little harder to please and the servants a good deal crosser than on common days. But I think it was also, in part, the fault of the children, who, after the quiet of Sunday, were specially frisky and uproarious, and readier than usual for all sorts of mischief.
To Clover and Elsie, Sunday seemed to begin at Saturday’s bed-time, when their hair was wet and screwed up in papers that it might curl next day. Elsie’s waved naturally, so Aunt Izzie didn’t think it necessary to pin her papers very tight; but Clover’s thick, straight locks required to be pinched hard before they would give even the least twirl, and to her Saturday night was one of misery. She would lie tossing and turning, and trying first one side of her head and then the other; but whichever way she placed herself the hard knobs and the pins stuck out and hurt her; so when at last she fell asleep, it was face down, with her small nose buried in the pillow, which was not comfortable, and gave her bad dreams. In consequence of these sufferings Clover hated curls, and when she “made up” stories for the younger children they always commenced: “The hair of the beautiful princess was as straight as a yard-stick, and she never did it up in papers—never!”
Sunday always began with a Bible story, followed by a breakfast of baked beans, which two things were much tangled up together in Philly’s mind. After breakfast the children studied their Sunday-school lessons, and then the big carryall came round, and they drove to church, which was a good mile off. It was a large, old-fashioned church, with galleries, and long pews with high, red-cushioned seats. The choir sat at the end, behind a low, green curtain, which slipped from side to side on rods. When the sermon began they would draw the curtain aside and show themselves, all ready to listen, but the rest of the time they kept it shut. Katy always guessed that they must be having good times behind the green curtain—eating orange-peel, perhaps, or reading the Sunday-school books—and she often wished she might sit up there among them.
The seat in Dr. Carr’s pew was so high that none of the children, except Katy, could touch the floor, even with the point of a toe. This made their feet go to sleep; and when they felt the queer little pin-pricks which drowsy feet use to rouse themselves with, they would slide off the seat, and sit on the benches to get over it. Once there, and well hidden from view, it was almost impossible not to whisper. Aunt Izzie would frown and shake her head, but it did little good, especially as Phil and Dorry were sleeping with their heads on her lap, and it took both her hands to keep them from rolling off into the bottom of the pew. When good old Dr. Stone said, “Finally, my brethren,” she would begin waking them up. It was hard work sometimes, but generally she succeeded, so that during the last hymn the two stood together on the seat, quite brisk and refreshed, sharing a hymn-book, and making believe to sing like the older people.
After church came Sunday-school, which the children liked very much, and then they went home to dinner, which was always the same on Sunday—cold corned-beef, baked potatoes, and rice-pudding. They did not go to church in the afternoon unless they wished, but were pounced upon by Katy instead, and forced to listen to the reading of The Sunday Visitor, a religious paper, of which she was the editor. This paper was partly written, partly printed, on a large sheet of foolscap, and had at the top an ornamental device in lead pencil, with “Sunday Visitor” in the middle of it. The reading part began with a dull little piece of the kind which grown people call an editorial, about “Neatness”, or “Obedience”, or “Punctuality”. The children always fidgeted when listening to this—partly, I think, because it aggravated them to have Katy recommending on paper as very easy the virtues which she herself found it so hard to practise in real life. Next came anecdotes about dogs and elephants and snakes, taken from the Natural History book, and not very interesting, because the audience knew them by heart already. A hymn or two followed, or a string of original verses, and, last of all, a chapter of “Little Maria and