The Dear Old Lady before me felt in her pocket, pulling up her overskirt and fumbling about for a mysterious pouch that was tied around her waist, perhaps, and in which she carried her purse, and then she pinched her reticle and said to herself—I was so near I could hear every word: "Oh, I guess I put it in the bag"—and she leaned over and began unfastening the clasps of an old-fashioned carpet-bag, encased in a pocket-edition of a linen duster, which rested on the seat in front of her and beside the Woman in Brown, who drew her immaculate, never-to-be-spotted silk skirt out of the way of any possible polluting touch.
I craned my head. Somehow I could hardly wait to see what kind of knitting she would take out—whether it was a man's stocking or a baby's mitten or a pair of wee socks, or a stripe to sew in an afghan to put over somebody's bed. What stories could be written about the things dear old ladies knit—what stories they are, really! In every ball of yarn there is a thread that leads from one heart to another: to some big son or fragile daughter, or to the owner of a pair of pink toes that won't stay covered no matter how close the crib—or to a chubby-faced boy with frost-tipped ears or cheeks.
First came the ball of yarn—just plain gray yarn—and then two steel needles, and then——
Then the Dear Old Lady stopped, and an expression of blank amazement overspread her sweet face as her fingers searched the interior of the bag.
"Why," she said to herself, "why! Well! You don't tell me that—well! I never knew that to happen before. Oh, isn't that dreadful! Well, I never!" Here she drew out an unfinished gray yarn stocking. "Just look at it! Isn't it awful!"
The Woman in Brown sprang to her feet and switched her dress close to her knees.
"What is it?" she cried.
"Jam!" answered the old lady.
"Jam! You don't mean to say——"