back. The carpet did not wear out; the stove never lacked luster; the
tiny window-panes were always just washed, and the diligent fingers went
on just the same. They had a quaint way not easy to describe. When one
talked all the rest chimed in with little whispering echoes, to support
the assertion; and yet they did not seem to interrupt. They were to me
living wonders, so perfectly unspotted from the world, so earnest in
their pigmy money-making, and so thoroughly united, I felt consumed with
curiosity as to their inner life. They must sometimes put by the
quilting and the knitting and the patterns.

"How do you interest yourselves evenings, Miss Chrissy?" I asked, half
ashamed of the question.

"Oh, we read," she said, smiling her ready smile. "Yes, read," echoed
Miss Suffy and the rest. "We read Sunday-School books, and our Bible,
of course. Sometimes we don't go to bed till ten o'clock."

"Ten o'clock--o'clock--o'clock," assented the gentle voices. It was not
silly; the smiling faces all wore the sweet, simple look of guileless
childhood.

Miss Suffy's window overlooked a time honored graveyard, where gray
slabs were tottering. Next to her beloved patterns and their varied
experiences, Miss Chrissy liked to tell of scenes and memories suggested
by these somber reminders.

"It was a very cold day, Mrs. John," (so she always called me), "when
they buried your husband's uncle out there. Poor fellow! He was shot
at Buena Vista. A cannon-ball took off both his legs, and went right
through the horse he rode. He was a gallant officer. They thought at