tand, she was taught that boys and men--indeed all
human things that wore trousers, long or short--were rank poison, and
were to be steadfastly avoided if a woman desired peace of mind. Miss
Mehitable frequently said that she had everything a husband could have
given her except a lot of trouble.

Daily, almost hourly, the wisdom of single blessedness had been
impressed upon Araminta. Miss Mehitable neglected no illustration
calculated to bring the lesson home. She had even taught her that her
own mother was an outcast and had brought disgrace upon her family by
marrying; she had held aloft her maiden standard and literally
compelled Araminta to enlist.

Now, all her work had gone for naught. Nature had triumphantly
reasserted itself, and Araminta had fallen in love. The years
stretched before Miss Mehitable in a vast and gloomy vista illumined by
no light. No soft step upon the stair, no sunny face at her table, no
sweet, girlish laugh, no long companionable afternoons with patchwork,
while she talked and Araminta listened. At the thought, her stern
mouth quivered, ever so slightly, and, all at once, she found the
relief of tears.

An hour or so afterward, she went up to the attic, walking with a
stealthy, cat-like tread, though there was no one in the house to hear.
In a corner, far back under the eaves, three trunks were piled, one on
top of the other. Miss Hitty lifted off the two top trunks without
apparent effort, for her arms were strong, and drew the lowest one out
into the path of sunlight that lay upon the floor, maple branches
swaying across it in silhouette.

In another corner of the attic, up among the rafters, was a box
apparently filled with old newspapers. Miss Hitty reached down among
the newspapers with accustomed fingers and drew out a crumpled wad,
tightly wedged into one corner of the box.

She listened carefully at the door, but there was no step in the house.
She was absolutely alone. None the less, she bolted the door of the
attic before she picked the crumpled paper apart, and took out the key
of the trunk.

The old lock opened readily, and from the trunk came the musty odour of
long-dead lavender and rosemary, lemon verbena and rose geranium. On
top was Barbara Lee's wedding gown. Miss Hitty always handled it with
reverence not unmixed with awe, never having had a wedding gown herself.

Underneath were the baby clothes which the girl-wife had begun to make
when she first kne