When the fourth spring came the rolls of silk were not even taken from their box except to be examined with tender care and replaced in the enveloping paper. Miss Priscilla was not well. For weeks she had spent most of her waking hours on the sitting-room couch, growing thiner, weaker, and more hollow-eyed.
“You see, dear, I--I am not well enough now to wear it,” she said faintly to her sister one day when they had been talking about the black silk gowns; “but you--” Miss Amelia had stopped her with a shocked gesture of the hand.
“Priscilla--as if I could!” she sobbed. And there the matter had ended.
The townspeople were grieved, but not surprised, when they learned that Miss Amelia was fast following her sister into a decline. It was what they had expected of the Heath twins, they said, and they reminded one another of the story of the strained eyes and the glasses. Then came the day when the little dressmaker’s rooms were littered from end to end with black silk scraps.
“It’s for Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia,’” said Mrs. Snow, with tears in her eyes, in answer to the questions that were asked.
“It’s their black silk gowns, you know.”
“But I thought they were ill--almost dying!” gasped the questioner.
The little dressmaker nodded her head. Then she smiled, even while she brushed her eyes with her fingers.
“They are--but they’re happy. They’re even happy in this!” touching the dress in her lap. “They’ve been forty years buying it, and four making it up. Never until now could they decide to use it; never until now could they be sure they wouldn’t want to--to make it--over.” The little dressmaker’s voice broke, then went on tremulously: “There are folks like that, you know--that never enjoy a thing for what it is, lest sometime they might want it--different. Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia never took the good that was goin’; they’ve always saved it for sometime--later.”