"Stockings," was the monosyllabled reply.
"Did you ever knit silk?"
"Shouldn't think I did. I ain't grand enough to afford that."
"You could, though, I know," said Clara.
"Why, I dunno,—praps so." Jane North was foiled, and she succumbed as gracefully as she could, although awkwardly enough; but Clara went on:
"I have some beautiful silk thread, I have had it for years. My grandfather's people, over in France, were silk weavers. It is through my mother that I am related to Mr. Minot; my father's people were French," she said, noticing an incredulous look in the eyes of Jane. "I have a lot of silk in thread and floss: I'll get the box and show it to you," and she did.
My own curiosity led me into the room—I had stood back of the door all this time—and the silk was beautiful; rich dark shades and fancy colors mingled, and a quantity of it too. Although kept so long, it was strong, having been of such fine material.
"Sakes alive! I should be scar't to death to own all that," said Jane.
"Well," said Clara, "if you will show me how to knit some for myself, I will be willing to scare you a little. I would like to give you enough to make a pair or two of stockings for yourself. Chose your own colors," and she emptied the contents of the box on the lounge at her side.
"You don't mean it, Mis' De-mond."