“Rather give it to you for a wedding present,” suggested Mollie, wickedly.
Betty said nothing, merely bending closer over the lovely thing she held in her hand.
“I do believe it’s Danish work,” she said, and at that moment the alert young saleswoman spoke up.
“You’re right, Miss,” she said, looking as proud as though she herself were the maker of the luncheon set. “It is Danish embroidery of the finest sort—and hand work, every stitch of it. I’ve seen fine work in my day, but nothing that could equal that.”
“I believe you,” murmured Betty, adding, with a quick, upward look: “Do you happen to know the person who does this work?”
“Yes, indeed,” said the young woman briskly. It had been a slow morning and she was glad of the chance to talk to sympathetic listeners. “An old lady she was—as quaint an old soul as I ever saw. We were quite fond of her around here. Every Saturday morning she used to come in, often with some new piece, prettier than the last, to sell.”
“Why do you say she ‘used to come?’” asked Amy, gently. “Doesn’t she come any more?”
The young woman shook her head and a frown puckered her forehead.
“No, Miss, she doesn’t. And the worst of it is we don’t know what has become of her.”
“Didn’t you know where she lived?” asked Betty, with interest.