of the wood. Her few chairs and tables looked as if waxed; the paint
was polished in places from her doors and window-casings; her
window-glass gave out green lights like jewels; and all this she did
with infinite pains and slowness, as there was hardly a natural
movement left in her rheumatic hands. But there was in her nature an
element of stern activity that must have its outcome in some
direction, and it took the one that it could find. Jane had used to
take in sewing before her hands were diseased. In her youth she had
learned the trade of a tailoress; when ready-made clothing, even for
children, came into use, she made dresses. Her dresses had been
long-waisted and stiffly boned, with high, straight biases, seemingly
fitted to her own nature instead of her customers' forms; but they
had been strongly and faithfully sewed, and her stitches held fast as
the rivets on a coat of mail. Now she could not sew. She could knit,
and that was all, besides her housework, that she could do.

This morning, while dusting a little triangular what-not that stood
in a corner of her sitting-room, she came across a small box that
held some old photographs. The box was made of a kind of
stucco-work--shells held in place by a bed of putty. Amanda Pratt had
made it and given it to her. Mrs. Field took up this box and dusted
it carefully; then she opened it, and took out the photographs one by
one.

After a while she stopped; she did not take out any more, but she
looked intently at one; then she replaced all but that one, got
painfully up from the low foot-stool where she had been sitting, and
went out of her room across the entry to Amanda's, with the
photograph in her hand.