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a debt already paid.
    By the generosity of relatives and the goodness of neighbors as kind as ever breathed, our furniture was our own again, but what were we to do for a living? Our crops were withering in the fields for want of rain, and we had but five cows—not an overbright outlook. As I was getting to bed one night my mother came into my room and said seriously, “Sybylla, I want to have a talk with you.”
    â€œTalk away,” I responded rather sullenly, for I expected a long singsong about my good-for-nothingness in general—a subject of which I was heartily tired.
    â€œSybylla, I’ve been studying the matter over a lot lately. It’sno use; we cannot afford to keep you at home. You’ll have to get something to do.”
    I made no reply, and my mother continued, “I am afraid we will have to break up the home altogether. It’s no use; your father has no idea of making a living. I regret the day I ever saw him. Since he has taken to drink, he has no more idea of how to make a living than a cat. I will have to give the little ones to some of the relatives; the bigger ones will have to go out to service, and so will your father and I. That’s all I can see ahead of us. Poor little Gertie is too young to go out in the world [she was not twelve months younger than I]; she must go to your grandmother, I think.”
    I still made no reply, so my mother inquired, “Well, Sybylla, what do you think of the matter?”
    â€œDo you think it absolutely necessary to break up the home?” I said.
    â€œWell, you suggest something better if you are so clever,” said Mother, crossly. “That is always the way; if I suggest a thing, it is immediately put down, yet there is never anyone to think of things but me. What would you do? I suppose you think you could make a living on the place for us yourself.”
    â€œWhy can’t we live at home? Blackshaw and Jansen have no bigger places than we, and families just as large, and yet they make a living. It would be terrible for the little ones to grow up separated; they would be no more to each other than strangers.”
    â€œYes; it is all very well for you to talk like that, but how is your father to start again with only five cows in the world? It’s no use, you never talk sense. You’ll find my way is always the best in the end.”
    â€œWould it not be easier,” I replied, “for our relations to each give a little toward setting us up again, than to be burdened with the whole responsibility of rearing a child? I’m sure they’d much prefer it.”
    â€œYes, perhaps it would be better, but I think
you
will have to get your own living. What would they say about having to support such a big girl as you are?”
    â€œI will go and earn my own living, and when you get meweeded out of the family you will have a perfect paradise. Having no evil to copy, the children will grow up saints,” I said bitterly.
    â€œNow, Sybylla, it is foolish to talk like that, for you know that you take no interest in your work. If you’d turn to and help me rear poultry and make dresses—and why don’t you take to cooking?”
    â€œTake to cooking!” I retorted with scorn. “The fire that a fellow has to endure on that old oven would kill a horse, and the grit and dirt of clearing it up grinds on my very nerves. Besides, if I ever do want to do any extra-fancy cooking, we either can’t afford the butter or the currants, or else the eggs are too scarce! Cook, be grannied!”
    â€œSybylla! Sybylla, you are getting very vulgar!”
    â€œYes, I once was foolish enough to try and be polite, but I’ve given it up. My style of talk is quite good enough for my company. What on earth does it matter whether I’m vulgar or not? I can feed calves and milk and grind out my days here just as well vulgar as unvulgar,” I answered savagely.
    â€œThere, you see, you