old-fashioned silver spoons and knives and tea-pots, heir-looms, they
said, from the old country. A bit of coarse paper bore an order for
supplies for soldiers upon the Commissaire at Nice, and was signed with
the genuine autograph of the great Napoleon. Every article had its
history, and rarely, if ever, was the little work-shop so long neglected
as on that occasion. When the procession filed back, I took leave with
somewhat the feeling of having been buried in wonderland, and suddenly
resurrected.

Perhaps the shock of the dreaded vandalism was too much. Perhaps the
excitement of the hair trunk struck too deep. At all events. Miss Becky
grew to muttering over her quilt, and making long pauses. One day her
needle stuck fast in the patchwork, and her head quietly sank to rest on
the rolled frame. When I paid my next visit, they said, "You will find
it very odd at The Pears's. Miss Becky is gone."

I did find it odd. The quilt was rolled forever, and the end window was
empty. There was only the chair. Still Miss Suffy sat with her stocking,
and Miss Chrissy with her patterns, placid and patient,--they were only
waiting; yet working as they waited. Miss Polly sighed once in a while
over her pans. Miss Phoebe still went to market and distributed small
alms to the poor. Ripe in good works and in holy resignation were The
Pears.

"Our quilter is gone," said Miss Chrissy. This time there was no
whispered echo; only a gentle sighing all around. But some of the
scallops in the yellow box were not without fresh adventures; and these
I heard.

That winter, Miss Phoebe fell on the slippery little side alley. There