“I haven’t seen anyone going past yet,” said Una.  “There won’t likely be many out.  Just see how it’s pouring.  And when there’s no preaching the folks won’t come from a distance to bring the children.”

“Go and call Carl,” said Faith.

Carl, it appeared, had a sore throat, induced by getting wet in the Rainbow Valley marsh the previous evening while pursuing dragon-flies.  He had come home with dripping stockings and boots and had sat out the evening in them.  He could not eat any breakfast and Faith made him go back to bed again.  She and Una left the table as it was and went to Sunday School.  There was no one in the school room when they got there and no one came.  They waited until eleven and then went home.

“There doesn’t seem to be anybody at the Methodist Sunday School either,” said Una.

“I’m glad,” said Faith.  “I’d hate to think the Methodists were better at going to Sunday School on rainy Sundays than the Presbyterians.  But there’s no preaching in their Church to-day, either, so likely their Sunday School is in the afternoon.”

Una washed the dishes, doing them quite nicely, for so much had she learned from Mary Vance.  Faith swept the floor after a fashion and peeled the potatoes for dinner, cutting her finger in the process.

“I wish we had something for dinner besides ditto,” sighed Una.  “I’m so tired of it.  The Blythe children don’t know what ditto is.  And we never have any pudding.  Nan says Susan would faint if they had no pudding on Sundays.  Why aren’t we like other people, Faith?”

“I don’t want to be like other people,” laughed Faith, tying up her bleeding finger.  “I like being myself.  It’s more interesting.  Jessie Drew is as good a housekeeper as her mother, but would you want to be as stupid as she is?”

“But our house isn’t right.  Mary Vance says so.  She says people talk about it being so untidy.”

Faith had an inspiration.

“We’ll clean it all up,” she cried.  “We’ll go right to work to-morrow.  It’s a real good chance when Aunt Martha is laid up and can’t interfere with us.  We’ll have it all lovely and clean when father comes home, just like it was when Mary went away.  Any one can sweep and dust and wash windows.  People won’t be able to talk about us any more.  Jem Blythe says it’s only old cats that talk, but their talk hurts just as much as anybody’s.”

“I hope it will be fine to-morrow,” said Una, fired with enthusiasm.  “Oh, Faith, it will be splendid to be all cleaned up and like other people.”

“I hope Aunt Martha’s misery will last over to-morrow,” said Faith.  “If it doesn’t we won’t get a single thing done.”

Faith’s amiable wish was fulfilled.  The next day found Aunt Martha still unable to rise.  Carl, too, was still sick and easily prevailed on to stay in bed.  Neither Faith nor Una had any idea how sick the boy really was; a watchful mother would have had a doctor without delay; but there was no mother, and poor little Carl, with his sore throat and aching head and crimson cheeks, rolled himself up in his twisted bedclothes and suffered alone, somewhat comforted by the companionship of a small green lizard in the pocket of his ragged nighty.