e one by, please," said Mother Mayberry, with total
unconsciousness of that very strong feminine predilection for
exclusiveness of design in wearing apparel. The garment in question was
a very lovely, simply-cut linen affair that bore a distinguished
foreign trade-mark. "I know you feel complimented by her wanting to
make one for herself by it, and maybe Clara May and Pattie, too. They
ain't no worldly feeling as good as having your clothes admired, is
they?"

"Indeed there isn't," answered Miss Wingate cordially, and if there was
chagrin in her heart at the thought of seeing Providence in uniform
with the precious pink blouse, her smile belied it. She immediately
ascended to her room, and returned quickly with the treasure in her
hand. "Let me come and see you fit them," she entreated. "I don't know
how to sew one, but I can tell how it ought to look."

"Come spend the day next Monday. We'll all have a good time together
and I'll make you some more of them fritters you liked for supper the
other night." The widow fairly beamed like a headlight at the thought
of the successful impromptu supper party a few nights before, when
Doctor Mayberry had brought Miss Wingate down upon her unexpectedly
with a demand to be invited to stay to supper for that especial dainty.
As she spoke she was half-way down the walk, and looked back, smiling
at them over the baby's bonnet.

"Yes, I heard Tom Mayberry disgraced himself over your maple syrup jug,
Bettie Pratt," called Mother Mayberry after her. "That Hoover baby
surely have growed. Good-by!"

"They ain't nothing in this world so comforting to a woman as good
feeling with her sisters, one and all," Mother Mayberry said as she
watched the last switch of the widow's skirt. "Mother, wife and
daughter love is a institution, but real sistering is a downright
covenant. Me and Bettie have held one betwixt us these many a year. But
you and me have both put a slight on the kitchen since Cindy got back.
Let's go see if dinner ain't most on the table."

And they found that from their neglect the dinner had suffered not at
all. Cindy, a gaunt, black woman with a fire of service and devotion to
Mother Mayberry in her eyes, and apparently nothing else to excuse
existence, had accomplished the meal as a triumph.

She had set the table out on the side porch under the budding
honeysuckle, and as Mother Mayberry and Miss Wingate, followed by
Martin Luther, ever ready to do trencher duty, came o