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 other days 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 back before 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 into any more scrapes, for I shan’t ever forget:

For the want of a nail the shoe was lost.’

4

Kikeri

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 Carrs’. 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!’

Sundays 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 wagonette 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 Her Sisters’, a dreadful tale, in which Katy drew so much moral, and made such personal allusions to the faults of the rest, that it was almost more than they could bear. In fact, there had just been a nursery rebellion on the subject. You must know that, for some weeks back, Katy had been too lazy to prepare any fresh Sunday Visitors, and so had forced the children to sit in a row and listen to the back numbers, which she read aloud from the very beginning! ‘Little Maria’ sounded much worse when taken in these large doses, and Clover and Elsie, combining for once, made up their minds to endure it no longer. So, watching their chance, they carried off the whole edition and poked it into the kitchen fire, where they watched it burn with a mixture of fear and delight which it was comical to witness. They dared not confess the deed, but it was impossible not to look conscious when Katy was flying about and rummaging after her lost treasure, and she suspected them, and was very irate in consequence.

The evenings of Sundays were always spent in repeating hymns to papa and Aunt Izzie. This was fun, for they all took turns, and there was quite a scramble as to who should secure the favourites, such as ‘The west hath shut its gate of gold’ and ‘Go when the morning shineth’.