My Garden of Hearts

THE REVOLUTION OF MOLLY

"I

TELL you, Molly, the house is well enough. It suits me. I have no money to throw away on fol-de-rols and foolishness; your mother never found fault with her home, and why should you? I won't hear another word."

"But, father," pleaded Molly, her dark eyes gathering a misty look, as if the tears were near, but her quivering mouth held firm by an effort of girlish will, "it is ten years since we lost dear mother, and nothing has been done to the house since she died. The paper is dingy and faded, the paint is worn off, the carpets are threadbare, the furniture is shabby. I am ashamed to ask my friends to the house. The home is not attractive for the boys. It wouldn't take so much to fix it up; but it now looks like poverty flat. I can't stand it, father." "I guess you'll have to," answered John Petrie, with an obstinate set of his jaw. The bull-dog look came out on his massive Scotch-Irish face. "All you say, Molly Petrie," he went on, "is the merest stuff and nonsense. If you are so silly as to feel ashamed of a good home, don't ask your friends here. As for the boys, what's good enough for their father is good enough for them, or ought to be. If it isn't, they're an ungrateful pack, and I'll not ⚫have them indulged. What under the canopy you want, I can't see. There isn't a cellar in town as good as my cel

lar: dry, clean, well ventilated, cemented, all in first-class condition, and the roof is perfect."

"We don't live in the cellar nor on the roof, father."

"Don't be pert, Miss, I'll not stand that. Go about your Saturday's work, and waste no more time; and, understand me, this subject is dismissed for this year. I'll not paint, nor paper, nor furnish new things to pamper folly and vanity in my children. That's settled."

Mr. Petrie put on his overcoat, jammed his hat on his bald head, and tramped off to the machine-shop of which he was proprietor. He was angry with Molly, angry enough to shake her; but you couldn't shake a young woman of twenty-three. For two months Molly had tormented him, renewing her efforts on every possible occasion, her heart being as resolutely set on making the shabby house and bare home presentable as his was in letting it severely alone. Now, he felt that he had arrived at the end of his patience. Was he, John Petrie, fifty-five years old, elder in the church, superintendent of the Sunday school, and leading citizen of H, to be dictated to by his family, by a girl of Molly's age? Not he, forsooth, if he knew himself.

Mr. Petrie was prosperous. His bank account was satisfactory. His investments were shrewdly made and profitable. Furthermore, he was a good provider. His children were comfortably dressed and his table was generously spread. Only on two points was he miserly. He would not allow Molly to have hired help, not even with the washing and ironing, nor would he do anything towards furnishing and brightening a most ill-furnished and rundown-as-to-paper-and-paint house.

As he entered his office, his pastor rose to meet him, extending a cordial hand.

"Brother Petrie," he said, "I ventured to call that I might suggest some steps about raising money to introduce electric lights into the church. I know you will. approve of the change. Our present lamps are so dim."

"I approve," said Mr. Petrie, at once bland and smiling, "of whatever will make our sanctuary beautiful. Put me down for a subscription of twenty dollars. I am always ready to put my hand in my pocket for the house of God."

The minister departed, beaming. He observed to his wife that day, that John Petrie was a most consecrated man, a vessel of sanctification, a true helper in the parish.

"Well," said Mrs. Minister, who was an observing little woman, "that may be, but I believe he does good that he may be advertised. I hold that man to be a sheet angel, Dan. He's harsh with his boys, and horrid to Molly. He'd better spend money on his own home, and let the church go." "Ruth," the husband expostulated, "Ruth, my darling, restrain that tongue. It may get us into trouble."

"It never has yet, Dan, but to you I say what I think," rejoined the small, bright-eyed woman, with proper spirit. They had no children, and there was nobody to hear or repeat their confidences.

After her father left, Molly Petrie threw herself into a chair and had a good cry.

"Her Saturday's work!" For some unaccountable reason, she was extremely irritated at the phrase as it had fallen from her father's lips. When her mother had died, leaving her, a girl of thirteen, to care for the household and bring up her three younger brothers, a very heavy load had fallen upon her slender shoulders. She had then definitely left school—just as she was prepared to enter the high school. For five years, till Molly was eighteen, "a girl" had officiated in the kitchen; but she had then been dismissed, and Molly, without wages, had kept house unassisted.

"Monday's and Tuesday's and Wednesday's work, who does it all, if not I!" she exclaimed, talking aloud, so that Puss on the hearth heard, wondered, and came purring to her side, presently jumping up on her lap, a soft, furry friend, whose sympathy was a comfort.

Molly Petrie had a Scotch-Irish vein of stubbornness as well as her father. She did her Saturday's work thoroughly, cleaned the dingy house till it shone, baked bread and pies, prepared the baked beans, and the roast beef for the Sunday's meals. John Petrie and his sons came home for noonday dinner, and Molly presided over it with composure. It was a good and abundant meal. Mr. Petrie's crossness of the morning was laid aside, and he was disposed to be affable.

In his own secret soul, he was pleased that he had managed his daughter so successfully.

"Nothing like firmness and a tight rein with a woman," he said, as he strode downtown again, half-chuckling to himself. "She'd have the bit between her teeth in no time, if I were not firm."

When he came home to supper, the house was shining, but no Molly greeted him. The boys, returning home from work-big fellows all, who earned and paid their way— shouted her name, but there was no reply.

"Where can she be?" growled the father. "I won't have her gadding about."

"She's not given to gadding, father," answered John Junior, "and she's not a slave. Here, what's this?" Just under the edge of Mr. Petrie's plate at the table was tucked a note. He read it with a puzzled frown. DEAR FATHER: I have gone to town to spend a fortnight with Aunty Helen. She has been ill and needs me. As my return after that is a little uncertain, I have telegraphed to your cousin Ellen to come on Monday, and look after you and the boys. There is plenty for you all to eat, 'till Monday. Your affectionate daughter, MARY PETRIE. Consternation reigned for a moment.

"How dared Molly go on a visit without leave?" stormed her father.

"Molly is of age," quietly declared John Junior, motioning his brothers to be silent. "It's hard," he added, "if she can never leave home for a day."

The meal was taken in glum silence. But the boys were on Molly's side, and they rejoiced in their tyrannical father's discomfiture. One by one they stole out softly after supper, leaving him alone. Not a man of them thought of washing the supper dishes.

Monday morning arrived, and with it Miss Ellen Petrie, a cousin several times removed, and a woman not in the least in awe of John. She took hold with a will, straightened up the house, and declared her intention of remaining as long as Molly wished to stay away.

"Sammy," she said to the youngest boy, on Tuesday, "who does the laundry work here?"

"Sister," he replied.

"I want to know! Well, you stop and send Mrs. McConnel here, quick as a wink."

Molly Petrie, at her Aunt Helen's, was in no hurry to go home. She had swiftly packed her trunk when she had decided to leave her father for awhile, and she had plenty of clothes to last her for a long visit. Her Aunt Helen, a younger sister of her mother, was only too glad to have Molly under her wing, and when Molly unfolded a bold plan, she abetted her.

"It isn't a love affair, dear, is it?" she asked, anxiously. "It is not. I shall never, never be in love," averred Molly. "I intend to keep my independence."

"Till the right man appears," laughed cheery Aunt Helen. "My dear, my dear, I don't wonder at the way you feel. Your father has alienated you from any thought of love or marriage."

"Molly is young and pretty, and life is all before her," said Great-aunt Matilda. "She'll be all right if she does not meet a 'masterful man.''

Molly's thought was this: She had worked so long without payment, and her father so ignored her wishes, and thwarted her at every turn, that she had concluded to try living where she could be paid for her services. With