ing to
have, because in case of illness--"

"Heavens!" said Martie. "She's trying to break something to us; she
suspects that there may be an illness some day in her house--"

"Oh, I do not!" said Sally, flushing and giggling in the old way.

"Len's first little suit," Lydia mused. "Dear me--dear me! And this old
table-cover; I remember when that was new! And here are Aunt Carrie's
things; she sent Ma a great box of them when she died; look, Sally, the
old-fashioned sleeves with fibre-chamois in them! This box is full of
hats; this was my Merry Widow hat; it was always so pretty I hated to
destroy it, but I suppose it really isn't much good! I wonder if some
poor woman could use it. And these are all old collars of Pa's and
Len's--it seems a shame to throw them away. I wonder if we could find
some one who wears this size? Martie, don't throw that coat over there
in the pile for the fire--it's a good piece of serge, and that cape
style may come in again!"

Absorbed and interested, the three worked among memories. Sometimes for
an hour at a time there was silence in the attic. Martie, with a faded
pink gingham dress spread across her lap, would be eight again,
trotting off to school with Sally, and promising Ma to hold Len's hand
when they crossed Main Street. How clean and trim, how ready for the
day, she had felt, when her red braid was tied with a brown ribbon, and
this little garment firmly buttoned down the back, and pressed with a
great sweep of Ma's arms to crush the too stiffly starched skirt!

Sally observed amusedly, perhaps a little pityingly, that Lydia wanted
everything. There was nothing in the old house for which Lydia did not
expect to have immediate need in the new. This little table for the
porch, this extra chair for the maid's room, this mirror, this
mattress, this ladder. The older sister reserved enough furniture to
fill the new house twice over; she would presently pack the new rooms
with cumbersome, useless possessions, and go to her death believing
herself the happier for having them.

CHAPTER V

The Eastern editor who had taken her first article presently wrote her
again. Martie treasured his letter with burning, secret pride, and with
perhaps a faint, renunciatory pang. She had pushed in her opening wedge
at last, too late! For no trifling literary success could change the
destined course of Mrs. Clifford Frost.

This was the letter:

DEAR MRS. BANNISTER: We are constantly rec