window down into the back yard, where, beneath the week's washing,
flapping in the breeze and the sun, she saw next summer's flowers already
blooming.

"Did you read that paragraph last week," she asked, suddenly, "about my
having been a washer-woman once?"

"No. What was it in?"

"One of those miserable society papers. Do you know there's a man in this
town who makes his living by sending such things to New York? Something
scandalous, if possible; if not scandalous, then libellous; if not
actually libellous, then derogatory and offensive."

"I never read such stuff," said Jane; "especially about people I like. I
always skip it,"

"Yes, but it's true. I can't deny it. I _was_ a washerwoman for a whole
year. I washed all Granger's shirts and starched them and ironed them,
and put them away and got them out and washed them again for months and
months. Every one went through the mill pretty often, too; there weren't
very many of them.

"Those are Granger's shirts out on the line there, now--the big ones.
Those in the other row are Jimmy's--the little ones."

"H'm!" observed Jane, standing beside her at the window; "which _are_ the
little ones?"

Mrs. Bates laughed. "Well, perhaps there isn't much difference. Jimmy is