as he held it up might do, look doited probably and bow at the
wrong time, the christening robe of long experience helped them
through. And when it was brought back to her she took it in her
arms as softly as if it might be asleep, and unconsciously pressed
it to her breast: there was never anything in the house that spoke
to her quite so eloquently as that little white robe; it was the
one of her children that always remained a baby. And she had not
made it herself, which was the most wonderful thing about it to me,
for she seemed to have made all other things. All the clothes in
the house were of her making, and you don't know her in the least
if you think they were out of the fashion; she turned them and made
them new again, she beat them and made them new again, and then she
coaxed them into being new again just for the last time, she let
them out and took them in and put on new braid, and added a piece
up the back, and thus they passed from one member of the family to
another until they reached the youngest, and even when we were done
with them they reappeared as something else. In the fashion! I
must come back to this. Never was a woman with such an eye for it.
She had no fashion-plates; she did not need them. The minister's
wife (a cloak), the banker's daughters (the new sleeve) - they had
but to pass our window once, and the scalp, so to speak, was in my
mother's hands. Observe her rushing, scissors in hand, thread in
mouth, to the drawers where her daughters' Sabbath clothes were
kept. Or go to church next Sunday, and watch a certain family
filing in, the boy lifting his legs high to show off his new boots,
but all the others demure, especially the timid, unobservant-
looking little woman in the rear of them. If you were the
minister's wife that day or the banker's daughters you would have
got a shock. But she bought the christening robe, and when I used
to ask why, she would beam and look conscious, and say she wanted