“I mean people doing what they ought to do when there’s no joy in it. That’s what’s the matter with this whole damned rotten society—a lot of people doing what they think they ought to do.”

Ellen swallowed a smile. “Yes, I thought as much.”

“Are you for it?” Joel sat up, hugging his knees.

Ellen laid her sewing down and looked out the window. Joel simply floored her with a question like that—a question that looked simple till you tried to figure out what was wrong with it.

“Well,” she said slowly, “I guess maybe there is always a good deal of hard work attached to what one wants to do.”

“Who wants to give a lot of parties where everyone is so drunk by the time dinner is served there’s no conversation anyway?”

“You’re talking about a different breed, Joel. The Chapmans would never allow such a thing.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “They’re pretty rare then.”

“Seems to me you base your judgments on a lot of … stereotypes—is that the word?—that don’t mean anything when you take a look. What if everyone felt as you do, Joel—we’d have no doctors, just to take one example. If everyone just lived like Old Pete—that’s the village tramp who’s in the hospital now with frozen feet—where would we be? No doctors, no one to man the telephones, or deliver milk, or mend cars.”

“Your ancestors didn’t have any of those things, and from what I hear they were real people and led real lives—even without the telephone!”

“My ancestors got up at four and worked till ten or eleven at night. If they were to have light they had to make candles. Know how long it takes to dip one candle? Well, I can’t tell you myself, but it was a long and tedious job. If they had clothes they had to have sheep, keep them alive, card the wool, weave the cloth. Most of what they ate they grew and harvested themselves. Whatever worked for them had to be fed too—oxen, horses—had to be shod, looked out for. My ancestors lived hard lives, dreadfully hard.”

“Didn’t they ever have any fun?” Joel said gently. “You’re painting a pretty stark picture.”

“No point in painting a rosy one. Wouldn’t be true. But I’ll grant you they did have fun—sewing bees, apple-picking, dances, all sorts of gathering together to get some piece of work done.”

“Work …” Joel sighed.

“Don’t know what you have against work, Joel.” And Ellen picked up her sewing with a smile.

“What’s so good about it?”

“Some kind of satisfaction hard to explain.”

“Helping people—I can see how that might justify hard work.”

“Well, pretty nearly every job I can think of helps someone.”