The girl's face brightened.
"If I don't turn out something worth while it shall not be for want of trying," she said, her cheek flushing, her eyes sparkling.
Then starting up. "I must hurry home; for mother and I are going to work with might and main at the spring sewing; and then at the tearing up and packing. Aunt Wealthy, I'm glad I'm old enough to be a help; there are so many younger ones, you know."
"Yes, Milly, and you are a great help and comfort to your mother."
"If—if I could only learn her patience; but the children are dreadfully trying—with their untidy ways, their mischief and noise. They nearly distract me at times and before I know it I've given somebody a shake or a slap, or if not that, a very uncomplimentary piece of my mind," she added half laughing, half sighing.
Then with a hasty good-bye she tripped away, her aunt calling after her, "Tell your mother I'll be in after a while."
Miss Stanhope sat where the girl had left her, the usually busy hands folded in her lap her gaze fixed meditatively on the carpet. Presently she lifted her head with a deep drawn sigh, her eye passed slowly about the room resting lovingly now upon this familiar object, now upon that.
"I don't think they would sell for much," she said, musingly: "the carpet has been in wear for thirty odd years and the colors have faded a good deal: the chairs and tables are older still and so are the pictures on the walls, that sampler my grandmother worked when she was a young girl—which was many years ago; and these chair-cushions too"—rising and going from one to another, giving to each in turn a little loving shake and pat—"she embroidered and filled with her own feathers; and so I value them more than their weight in gold. Marcia, I think, values them also, but—to a stranger, I suppose they would all seem old, dingy and worthless, though to me they are real treasures. I've a sincere affection for them.
"But what is that to my love for Marcia and her children! what indeed!"