Pretty Milly by MARTHA E. WARNER

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jul 13, 1916

Pretty Milly

By MARTHA E. WARNER

MARTHA E. WARNER

Our train came to a sudden standstill, held up by a wreck ahead, and word was passed along that we must wait until the track could be cleared. Some got off our car, and those left settled down to enjoy a book or a magazine, or visited with their seat mates. Being alone, I closed my eyes and tried to rest. Soon a quiet voice behind me said:—

“It’s no use, Aunt Mary. I’m discouraged. I don’t know what to do. Three times Milly has telephoned me to meet her at the trolley, and three times she has failed to put in her appearance. She is with her mother for a week. She never keeps an appointment. Milly hates to live in the country; she despises to do housework or sew. Her housekeeping is frightful. You’ve seen it, Aunt Mary—table and sink piled full of dirty dishes, and more on the floor; chairs loaded with a little of everything. Several times I have unexpectedly taken a friend home, thinking maybe it would shame her, but she doesn’t care. When she is dressed to go away, she is so pretty, but around home a dirty old kimono is good enough. How I—”

“My boy, my boy!” exclaimed Aunt Mary with motherly concern, “you forget little Joe. When a woman has a baby to care for, some things must necessarily be neglected.”

“That’s all right, Aunt Mary, but before little Joe came, the house looked just the same. You brought up a family of boys, and you and your home were

always neat and clean. Uncle never had to wait for a meal. I never know when one is going to be ready. There is no such thing as system at our house. Milly’s mother is all right, but why didn’t she teach her daughter how to keep house, cook, and spend money? I have a good salary, a hundred dollars a month, but I cannot save a cent. Milly thinks it’s a disgrace to be compelled to live on so little; but if you had the handling of that amount, you would have a bank account. I’ll tell you, Aunt Mary, I’m completely discouraged. It seems to me I can never enter that dirty house again. If we moved to town, rents would be higher, and the money would go even faster. Honestly, I’m tempted to end the whole thing.”

“Don’t say that, my boy. Look up, not down. Don’t despair—” but the rest of the conversation was lost as our train started. I have often thought of pretty Milly, and the cry, Why didn’t her mother teach her to keep house? What will that neglectful mother have to answer when her daughter’s failures cause her house of happiness to fall in ruins around her?

Clintonville, Conn.