the same pattern in red worsted and beads. On one wall hung a group
of pictures framed in cardboard, four little colored prints of
crosses twined with flowers, and they were all alike. "Why didn't you
get them crosses different?" many a neighbor had said to her--these
crosses, with some variation of the entwining foliage, had been very
popular in the rural neighborhood--and Amanda had replied with quick
dignity that she liked them better the way she had them. Amanda
maintained the monotony of her life as fiercely as her fathers had
pursued the sea. She was like a little animal born with a rebound to
its own track, from whence no amount of pushing could keep it long.

Mrs. Babcock glanced sharply around the room as she sewed; she was
anxious to divert Amanda's mind from the mats. "Don't the moths ever
git into that stuffed bird over there?" she asked suddenly,
indicating the gull on the shelf with a side-wise jerk of her head.

"No; I ain't never had a mite of trouble with 'em," replied Amanda.
"I always keep a little piece of camphor tucked under his wing
feathers."

"Well, you're lucky. Mis' Jackson she had a stuffed canary-bird all
eat up with 'em. She had to put him in the stove; couldn't do nothin'
with him. She felt real bad about it. She'd thought a good deal of
the bird when he was alive, an' he was stuffed real handsome, an'
settin' on a little green sprig. She use to keep him on her parlor
shelf; he was jest the right size. It's a pity your bird is quite so
big, ain't it?"

"I s'pose he's jest the way he was made," returned Amanda shortly.