gingham trimmed with white braids; she had brown slippers, also, with
bows; she would not verify Rosamond's prophecy that she "would be all
points," now that there was an apology for them. I think we were all
more particular about our outer ladyhood than usual.

After breakfast the little pembroke was wheeled out again, and on it
put a steaming pan of hot water. Ruth picked up the dishes; it was
something really delicate to see her scrape them clean, with a pliant
knife, as a painter might cleanse his palette,--we had, in fact, a
palette-knife that we kept for this use when we washed our own
dishes,--and then set them in piles and groups before mother, on the
pembroke-table. Mother sat in her raised arm-chair, as she might sit
making tea for company; she had her little mop, and three long, soft
clean towels lay beside her; we had hemmed a new dozen, so as to have
plenty from day to day, and a grand Dunikin wash at the end on the
Mondays.

After the china and glass were done and put up, came forth the
coffee-pot and the two pans, and had their scald, and their little
scour,--a teaspoonful of sand must go to the daily cleansing of an
iron utensil, in mother's hands; and _that_ was clean work, and the
iron thing never got to be "horrid," any more than a china bowl. It
was only a little heavy, and it was black; but the black did not come
off. It is slopping and burning and putting away with a rinse, that
makes kettles and spiders untouchable. Besides, mother keeps a bottle
of ammonia in the pantry, to qualify her soap and water with, when she
comes to things like these. She calls it her kitchen-maid; it does
wonders for any little roughness or greasiness; such soil comes off in
that, and chemically disappears.