Mrs. Ray stopped sewing and scanned the new proposition with one eye half closed.
"I'd have to piece the sleeves; you'd have to make up your mind to that. Were they in the wagon?"
"No, just standing on the scales. You think you can manage it if you piece them—don't you?"
"Yes, I can manage it then. I can get my backs out below the knee, and get her sides out of his backs."
"Oh, Mrs. Ray, you've taken a load off my mind. I'm so glad to get these awful sad remembrances done some good with. I made pillow-slips out of his nightshirts, but his flannels will haunt me till I die. Eddy's the only one of the boys that is ever going to grow to them, and Eddy never wears flannel."
"I should think you could use 'em up to cover the ironing-table. Who did you say was picking chestnuts,—Mrs. Lathbun and her daughter?"
"I haven't said a word about them." Mrs. Wiley opened her eyes widely. "But I'm hearing about them all over. I don't believe she's her daughter any more than you are. They're a nice pair, those two. Chestnuts six dollars a bushel, and they picking them morn, noon, and night. Have you seen Sammy Adams? He took them in the night before they got here, you know. You heard of that."
"Yes, I did." Mrs. Ray's lips came together; "I shall ask him all about that taking them in, the first time I see him. Never bought a stamp yet! Such doings! They're not respectable. Don't tell me."
"You're terrible prejudiced in your opinions, Mrs. Ray; you judge everybody by the stamps they buy."
"It's all I have to judge strangers by," said Mrs. Ray, "and it's a pretty good guide, too. Mrs. Lathbun don't buy stamps and nobody can't tell me that she's on the square. Wait till I see Sammy!"