It was Sunday, too, and that fact, so Phoebe thought,
added to the gloominess of the storm. For Phoebe had left behind her
the years in which she had been young and strong, and in which she had
no need to regard the weather. Now if she went out in the rain she was
sure to suffer afterward with rheumatism, so, of course, a day like this
made her a prisoner within doors. There she had not very much to occupy
her. She and her husband, Gardener Jim, lived so simply that it was a
small matter to prepare and clear away their meals, and, that being
attended to, what was there for her to do?
Phoebe had never been much of a scholar, and reading even the
coarse-print Bible, seemed to try her eyes. Knitting on Sunday was not
to be thought of, and there was nobody passing by to be watched and
criticised. Altogether Phoebe considered it a very dreary day.
As for Gardener Jim, he had his pipe to comfort him. All the same he
heaved a sigh now and then, as if to say, "O dear! I wish things were
not quite so dull."
In the big house near by lived Jim's employer, Mr. Stevens. There
matters were livelier, for there were living five healthy, happy
children, whose mother scarcely knew the meaning of the word quiet. When
it drew near two o'clock in the afternoon they were all begging to be
allowed to go to Sunday-school.
"You'll let me go, won't you, ma?" cried Jessie, the oldest, and Tommy
and Nellie and Johnny and even baby Clara echoed the petition.
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