In spite of their weariness the sisters did not get to bed very early that night. They could not decide whether the top drawer of the spare-room bureau or the long box in the parlor closet would be the safer refuge for their treasure. And when the matter was decided, and the sisters had gone to bed, Miss Priscilla, after a prolonged discussion, got up and moved the silk to the other place, only to slip out of bed later, after a much longer discussion, and put it back. Even then they did not sleep well: for the first time in their lives they knew the responsibility that comes with possessions; they feared--burglars.
With the morning sun, however, came peace and joy. No moth nor rust nor thief had appeared, and the lustrous lengths of shimmering silk defied the sun itself to find spot or blemish.
“It looks even nicer than it did in the store, don’t it?” murmured Miss Priscilla, ecstatically, as she hovered over the glistening folds that she had draped in riotous luxury across the chair-back.
“Yes,--oh, yes!” breathed Miss Amelia. “Now let’s hurry with the work so we can go right down to Mis’ Snow’s.”
"Black silk-black silk!” ticked the clock to Miss Priscilla washing dishes at the kitchen sink.
“You’ve got a black silk! You’ve got a black silk!" chirped the robins to Miss Amelia looking for weeds in the garden.
At ten o’clock the sisters left the house, each with a long brown parcel carefully borne in her arms. At noon--at noon the sisters were back again, still carrying the parcels. Their faces wore a look of mingled triumph and defeat.
“As if we could have that beautiful silk put into a plaited skirt!” quavered Miss Priscilla, thrusting the key into the lock with a trembling hand. “Why, Amelia, plaits always crack!”
“Of course they do!” almost sobbed Miss Amelia. “Only think of it, Priscilla, our silk--cracked!”
“We will just wait until the styles change,” said Miss Priscilla, with an air of finality. “They won’t always wear plaits!”