Of No Account by Ruth Lamb

IT was Saturday afternoon and Adam Livesey had taken charge of all his children except the eldest, who was staying at home to fetch and carry and to be made generally useful during the weekly "cleaning up" for Sunday. The one left behind cast longing glances after the little troop who, under father's convoy, were being taken out of mother's way. It was rather hard lines for the solitary little damsel, who would have so enjoyed a run in the park with the rest, but who, being ten years old and the eldest of six, mostly boys, paid the penalty of being a sort of household drudge.

The mother could hardly be blamed for this, since, as she truly said, her own work was never done, and in the pinched face and often peevish tones of Mrs. Livesey there was not much to remind any one of rosy-checked Maggie Allison. But she might have made her willing little helper much happier, if she had only led the child instead of driving her, and given kind words in place of perpetual fault-finding.