“We don’t exactly know what happened to the others she made; but this one came right down from grandmother’s mother to her, then to my mother, and now to me.”
“Would any price tempt you to sell it?” asked Polly.
“Nothin’ on earth, whiles I live. But I haven’t any children, and goodness only knows what will become of the dear old heirloom. Why did you ask?”
“How I would love to own it! Not for its value in money but really to hold it as a precious patriotic reminder of those days when the ladies, even though they dressed fine and had good times, performed such heroic and almost super-human deeds for the Army,” explained Polly.
Mrs. Johnson gazed keenly at the girl’s face for a few moments, then said: “Tell me your name and address: I am going to write it out now, that this quilt is to be yours any time I die; and you must be as careful of it as we have been. Always keep tar-paper, or tobacco in it, during summer when moths fly about.”
Polly thanked the lady very seriously and promised to be most careful of it in every way, but she said she hoped Mrs. Johnson would live a long time to enjoy the quilt as her own family relic.
On the drive back through Morristown that day, Mrs. Fabian had Carl stop at Mr. Van Styne’s auction rooms, but the old man was not in, and the door was locked. A sheet of paper tacked inside the sash of the door, announced that the owner was at Parsippany numbering household goods for an auction to be held in two weeks’ time.
Mrs. Fabian made a note of the name and location of the house where the sale was to be held, and came back to the automobile. She showed the paper to the girls, and said:
“We’ll try to get out here for that sale. But I’ll write Mr. Van Styne first, and ask him what sort of things the people have.”
“Yes, it would be silly to come so far and find the house contained nothing but horrid old modern stuff,” said Eleanor.