were devout Lutherans, and their pew at the Sunday service was never
vacant; but I had never seen them outside the workshop.

We filed into the funny little chambers where were the high beds, with
their steps to be climbed. What a wilderness of feathers and patchwork!
Some of Miss Becky's work was there. The bureaus nearly to ceilings,
ornamented with round glass knobs, had their little mirrors perched
up above my head. The candle stands, with spindle legs, wore an
antediluvian look, and the chairs were just as queer. The more aspiring
ones were prim in starched antimaccassars. Even the footstools belonged
to a prehistoric age. There was nothing costly or elegant, but so very
ancient and even comical, I had never seen anything like it, anywhere.
A few oil-paintings, hung in the very border of the huge-figured paper,
were small, but evidently fine.

"These things were brought from Alsace," explained Miss Chrissy, as I
commented freely. "Elsace is the way to call it--and we can't bear to
have strangers meddling with what is sacred to us."

"Sacred to us," came from the procession behind.

At last, pausing before a huge hair trunk, they all gathered nearer, and
when the lid was raised, they vied with one another in displaying the
contents. It would take a great while to tell all that I saw, or their
curious little speeches and words and assents. There were samplers in
every style of lettering and color. The inevitable tombstone, with the
weeping-willow and mourning female, was among them. Bits of painted
velvet, huge reticules, bead purses; gay shawls, and curious lace
caps--all showed patient handiwork. Gifts and souvenirs were plentiful,
even to the blue silk keepsake of the first Mrs. John. Then came