entreated. "I don't know how to sew one, but I can tell how it ought
to look."

"Come spend the day next Monday. We'll all have a good time together
and I'll make you some more of them fritters you liked for supper
the other night." The widow fairly beamed like a headlight at the
thought of the successful impromptu supper party a few nights
before, when Doctor Mayberry had brought Miss Wingate down upon her
unexpectedly with a demand to be invited to stay to supper for that
especial dainty. As she spoke she was half-way down the walk, and
looked back, smiling at them over the baby's bonnet.

"Yes, I heard Tom Mayberry disgraced himself over your maple syrup
jug, Bettie Pratt," called Mother Mayberry after her. "That Hoover
baby surely have growed. Good-by!"

"They ain't nothing in this world so comforting to a woman as good
feeling with her sisters, one and all," Mother Mayberry said as she
watched the last switch of the widow's skirt. "Mother, wife and
daughter love is a institution, but real sistering is a downright
covenant. Me and Bettie have held one betwixt us these many a year.
But you and me have both put a slight on the kitchen since Cindy got
back. Let's go see if dinner ain't most on the table."

And they found that from their neglect the dinner had suffered not
at all. Cindy, a gaunt, black woman with a fire of service and
devotion to Mother Mayberry in her eyes, and apparently nothing else
to excuse existence, had accomplished the meal as a triumph.

She had set the table out on the side porch under the budding