tha had been very good to her.

Then Grandmother Wheeler, who had a mild
persistency not evident to a casual observer, began
to make plans and lay plots. She was resolved,
Diantha or not, that her granddaughter, her son's
child, should have some fine feathers. The little
conference had taken place in her own room, a large,
sunny one, with a little storeroom opening from it.
Presently Grandmother Wheeler rose, entered the
storeroom, and began rummaging in some old trunks.
Then followed days of secret work. Grandmother
Wheeler had been noted as a fine needlewoman,
and her hand had not yet lost its cunning. She had
one of Amelia's ugly little ginghams, purloined from
a closet, for size, and she worked two or three dainty
wonders. She took Grandmother Stark into her
confidence. Sometimes the two ladies, by reason
of their age, found it possible to combine with good
results.

"Your daughter Diantha is one woman in a thou-
sand," said Grandmother Wheeler, diplomatically,
one day, "but she never did care much for clothes."

"Diantha," returned Grandmother Stark, with a
suspicious glance, "always realized that clothes were
not the things that mattered."

"And, of course, she is right," said Grandmother