"Good-night, dear. Hadn't you better drink a cup of pepper-tea before you go to bed?"
"No, thank you; I am only tired."
She sat by the window of her little bedroom over the shop a long time before lighting her lamp. Dim and dark, the river wound along, its surface gleaming here and there faintly through the leafless branches of the willows. Overhead, the solemn stars shone coldly. The houses along its banks were already dark and silent. At some involuntary movement, her hand fell upon a soft white mass of needle-work which strewed the table near her, and the contact seemed to rouse her. She rose, lit the lamp, folded the dainty, lace-trimmed garment, and made it into a parcel with some others which she took from a drawer, and went to bed. It was long before she slept, but the early morning found her asleep, with a peaceful smile upon her face.
The next day, being Saturday, was a busy one, for let Death stalk as he will, people must have their Sunday gear. The little shop was full at times, and feminine tongues and fingers flew without cessation, mixing millinery and misery in strange confusion.
"You don't say that's Mis' Belden's bonnet, with all them flowers on it? Well, I never! And she a member!"
"Why, you're a member, too, ain't you, Mis' Allen?" says another, with a glance at the first speaker's head, where feathers of various hues waved majestically.
"Oh, you mean my feathers?" was the spirited answer. "Feathers an' flowers is different things. You must draw the line somewhere, an' I draw it at feathers."
"They say one o' the women died up to the pest-house yesterday," said one woman, in the midst of an earnest discussion as to the comparative becomingness of blue roses and crimson pansies.
"Dear me!" said Miss Bullins, compassionately, "an' not a woman there to lay her out! Sarah Gatchell didn't go up till to-day."