ade of scores of different sorts of
black pieces rolled together is anything but expressive. On first
opening it, Donald looked hopelessly at the motley heap; but the kind
woman helped him somewhat by rapidly throwing piece after piece aside,
with, "That can't be it--that's like little Tom's trousers;" "Nor
that,--that's what I wore for poor mother;" "Nor that--that's to mend my
John's Sunday coat;" and so on, till there were not more than a dozen
scraps left. Of these, three showed that they had been cut with a pair
of scissors, but the others were torn pieces, and of different kinds of
black goods. Don felt these pieces, held them up to the light, and in
despair, was just going to beg her to let him have them all for future
investigation, when his face suddenly brightened.

Putting one of the pieces between his lips, he shook his head with
rather a disgusted expression, as though the flavor were anything but
agreeable, then tried another and another (the woman meantime regarding
him with speechless amazement), till at last, holding out a strip and
smacking his lips, he exclaimed:

"I have it! This is it! It's as salt as brine!"

"Good land!" she cried; "salt! who ever heard of such a thing,--and in
my rag-bag? How could that be?"

Don paid no attention to her. Tasting another piece, that proved on
closer examination to be of the same material, he found it to be equally
salt.

His face displayed a comical mixture of nausea and delight as he sprang
to his feet, crying out:

"Oh! ma'am, I can never thank you enough. These are the pieces of Ellen
Lee's gown, I am confident--unless they have been salted in some way
since you've had them."

"Not they, sir; I can warrant that. But who under the canopy ever
thought of the taste of a shipwrecked gown before!"

"Smell these," he said, holding the pieces toward her. "Don't you notice
a sort of salt-sea odor about them?"

"Not a bit," she answered, emphatically, shaking her head. Then, still
cautiously sniffing at the pieces, she added: "Indeed and I _do_ fancy
so now. It's faint, but it's there, sir. Fifteen years ago! How salt
does cling to things! The poor woman must have been pulled out of the
very sea!"

"That doesn't follow," remarked Donald: "her skirt might have been
soaked by the splashing of the waves after she was let down into the
small boat."

Donald talked a while longer with his new acquaintance, but finally
bade her good-day, first, however, writing