e lived on the farm, you know, like
yours, and most of the work of that farm mother did. She did the
cooking--for all the hired hands, too; she made the butter, and took
care of the hens; she made the candles and the soap; she made the
carpets and all our clothes--my brothers', too; and she put up preserves
and jellies and cordials, and did the most beautiful embroidery; I
have some of mother's embroidered collars, and I can't do anything like
them."

"It was tremendous," he said. "My Aunt Delia did that, too."

"We were old-fashioned, even for then," she said. "Everybody didn't do
so much, of course, as we did. Lizzie says we were just on the edge of
the new age. It certainly is different. And of course I wouldn't go back
to it for anything. After we came back from boarding-school it was all
changed. We moved, then, nearer the town. But, do you know, my mother
went to singing-school, and Lizzie was looking that up in a book, the
other day, to see what they did--she wanted it for a party!"

He laughed. "That _is_ delicious!" he said.

"See what I found to-day!" she added, drawing a small object from
her pocket. "I hunted it up to show Miss Porter tonight. She was so
interested when I told her about it."

She showed him, with a tender amusement, a little slender white silk
mitten. Around the wrist was embroidered in dark blue a legend in Old
English script. He puzzled it out: _A Whig or no Husband!_

"That was mother's," she said, "the girls wore them then. She was quite
a belle, mother was! And when people ask me how Lizzie does so much, I
say that she inherits it. But at her age mother was broken down and
old. She had to be. There were nine of us, and here there's only little
Dudley, and it was so long before he came."

They sat quietly. The setting sun flamed through the crab-apples and
burnished the fur of the tortoise-shell cat. The mint smelled strong.
The sweet, mellow summer evening was reflected in her handsome face,
with its delicate lines, that only added a restful charm to forehead and
cheek. He had no need to talk; it was very, very pleasant sitting there.

A maid came out to get the mayonnaise, and the spell was broken. He took
out his watch.

"Just time to dress," he sighed. "Will you be here again? We must talk
old times once more."

She smiled and seemed to assent, but her eyes were not on him; she was
still in a revery. He walked softly away. She seemed hardly to notice
him, and his last bac