And as it turned out, one shadowy April day, it was the best thing she could have done, because, when Dr. Lavendar dropped in to see her, she could make him a cup of tea at once, without having to leave him alone. She was a little, bustling figure, rather dusty and moth-eaten, with a black frizette, always a little to one side, and eager, gentle, blue eyes.
"What's the news?" she said. She had given Dr. Lavendar an apple, and put on the kettle, and taken up her hemming.
"I never saw anybody so fond of sewing," the old man ruminated, eating his apple. "I believe you'd sew in your grave."
"I believe I would. Dear me! I am so sorry for the poor women who don't like to sew. Amelia Dilworth told me that Mrs. Neddy can't bear to take a needle in her hand. So Milly does Ned's mending just as she did before he was married."
"Aren't you sorry for the poor men that don't like to sew?" Dr. Lavendar said, looking about for a place to deposit his core—("Oh, drop it on the floor; I'll sweep it up sometime," Miss Lydia told him; but he disposed of it by eating it).
"Well, as for sewing," said Miss Lydia, "it's my greatest pleasure. Why, when I get settled down to sew, my mind roves over the whole earth. I don't want to brag, but I don't believe anybody enjoys herself more than I do when I'm sewing. If you won't tell, I'll tell you something, Dr. Lavendar."
"I won't tell."
"Well, then: Sunday used to be an awful day to me. I couldn't sew, and so I couldn't think. And I really couldn't go to church all day. So I just bought some beautiful, fine nainsook and cut out my shroud. And I work on that Sundays, because a shroud induces serious thoughts."
"I should think it might," said Dr. Lavendar.
"You don't think it's wrong, do you?" she asked, anxiously; and added, joyously, "I'm embroidering the whole front. I declare I don't know what I'll do when I get it done."