Lucy was ashamed of her irresolution, and, glad to attribute her red eyes to that which had in part caused them, she said, "The kitchen smokes badly, ma'am."
"You'll get used to that, child — all kitchens smoke[1] — I am glad it is not home-sickness — it is too ridiculous to be home-sick for such places as you live in — I'm never home-sick."
"Neither should I be," thought Lucy, "if I had such a dismal home as this. "Mrs. Broadson then proceeded to give her directions for her morning work; and Lucy soon found there was no advantage in the truth of that eternal vaunt of Mrs. Broadson, "there are but two of us, I and Mr. Broadson," for the woman employed all the mind she had in contriving to keep Lucy's feet and hands busy. As if the necessary labour of tending the street-door, rubbing brasses, furniture, and knives, going of errands, setting tables, &c., &c., were not enough, Mrs. Broadson must have her carpets swept with a short handbrush; and poor Lucy, accustomed to consider despatch the soul of business, spent an hour every day on her knees brushing off the carpets, Mrs. Broadson the while expatiating on the great economy of cleaning carpets in this fashion. "There is no dust raised," she said; "the fine parts of the carpet are not swept off - there is nothing worn."
"Nothing but my clothes, ma'am," said Lucy, showing a hole she had worn through her thin but well-saved frock.
- ↑ This was the case with most New-York kitchens before the introduction of anthracite coal.
