parlor. She closed the door behind her. When she came out a few
minutes later she was pale but triumphant. "There," said she, "it's
back with her, and I've got just this much to say, and no more, Flora
Barnes. When you get home you gather up all the back breadths you've
got, and you do them up in a bundle, and you put them in that barrel
the Ladies' Sewing Society is going to send to the missionaries next
week, and don't you ever touch a back breadth again, or I'll tell it
right and left, and you'll see how much business you'll have left
here, I don't care how sickly it gets."

"If father would--only have joined the trust I never would have
thought of such a thing, anyway," muttered Flora. She was vanquished.

"You do it, Flora Barnes."

"Yes, I will. Don't speak so, Mrs. Whitman."

"You had better."

The undertaker and his son-in-law and Henry had remained quite
silent. Now they moved toward the door, and Flora followed, red and
perspiring. Sylvia heard her say something to her father about the
trust on the way to the gate, between the tall borders of box, and
heard Martin's surly growl in response.

"Laying it onto the trust," Sylvia said to Henry--"such an awful
thing as that!"

Henry assented. He looked aghast at the whole affair. He seemed to
catch a glimpse of dreadful depths of feminity which daunted his