She went over to the Uphams. Polly had been having her sampler framed. The acorn border was very pretty in its greens and browns. Then a stiff little tree grew up both sides, about like those that came in the Noah's Ark later on. And between these two trees was worked in cross-stitch:
| "Mary Upham is my name, |
| America is my nation; |
| Salem is my dwelling place, |
| And Christ is my salvation." |
"Isn't the frame nice?" she asked. "I made father two shirts and he gave me the frame and the glass. Peter Daly made it. And the frame is oiled and polished until the grain shows—well, almost like watered silk. Gitty Sprague has a beautiful pelisse of gray watered silk. And now I have one thing for my house. I'm beginning to lay by."
"Your house!" Cynthia ejaculated in surprise.
"Why, yes—when I'm married. You have such lots of things, you'll never have to save up."
Cynthia was wondering what she could give away. Not anything that was her father's or her mother's.
"I'll paint you a picture. You do so much better needlework than I that I should be ashamed to offer you any."
"And the girls will give me some, I know. I'd fifty times rather have the picture. What a nice young fellow that cousin is! I'm glad his name isn't Leverett. There's such a host of them. But I don't like Anthony so well."
"That was father's name. It's quite a family name. It always sounds good to me."
"And is he going to Harvard?"