f
boiling strawberry preserves proclaimed the cause of the aunt's
activity.

Maria Metz was, at fifty, robust and comely, with black hair very
slightly streaked with gray, cheeks that retained traces of the rosy
coloring of her girlhood, and flashing black eyes meeting squarely the
looks of all with whom she came in contact. She was a member of the
Church of the Brethren and wore the quaint garb adopted by the women of
that sect. Her dress of black calico was perfectly plain. The tight
waist was half concealed by a long, pointed cape which fell over her
shoulders and touched the waistline back and front, where a full apron
of blue and white checked gingham was tied securely. Her dark hair was
parted and smoothly drawn under a cap of white lawn. She was a
picturesque figure but totally unconscious of it, for the section of
Pennsylvania in which she lived has been for generations the home of a
multitude of women similarly garbed--members of the plain sects, as the
Mennonites, Amish, Brethren in Christ, and Church of the Brethren, are
commonly called in the communities in which they flourish.

As the child appeared in the doorway her aunt turned.

"So," the woman said pleasantly, "you worked vonderful quick to-day
once, Phoebe. Why, you got your patches done soon--did you make little
stitches like I told you?"

"I ain't got 'em done!" The child stood erect, a defiant little figure,
her blue eyes grown dark with the moment's tenseness. "I ain't goin' to
sew no more when it's so nice out! I want to be out in the yard, that's
what I want. I just hate this here patchin' to-day, that's what I do!"

Maria Metz carefully wiped the strawberry juice from her fingers, then
she stood before the little girl like a veritable tower of amazement and
strength.

"Phoebe," she said after a moment's struggle to control her wrath, "you
ain't big enough nor old enough yet to tell me what you ain't goin' to
do! How many patches did you make?"

"Three."

"And you know I said you shall make four every day still so you get the
quilt done this summer yet and ready to quilt. You go and finish them."

"I don't want to." Phoebe shook her head stubbornly. "I want to play out
in the yard."

"When you're done with the patches, not before! You know you must learn
to sew. Why, Phoebe," the woman changed her tactics, "you used to like
to sew still. When you was just five years old you cried for goods and
needle and I pinned the patches on the l