"That I have," she answered, laughing; "and likely to have it for many a year to come. My good mother made it for me when I was married, and so I've kept it and patched it till it's like Joseph's coat; and useful enough it's been, too—holding many a bit that's done service to me and my little romps. 'Keep a thing seven year,' my mother used to say, 'keep it seven year an' turn it, an' seven year again, an' it'll come into play at last.'"
"Why may you not have saved that tatter of the old gown twice seven years, then?" persisted Donald.
"Why, bless you, young sir, there's no knowin' as to that. But you couldn't find it, if I had. For why? the black pieces, good, bad, and indifferent, are all in one roll together, and you nor I couldn't tell which it was."
"Likely enough," said Donald, in a disappointed tone; "and yet, could you—that is—really, if you wouldn't mind, I'd thank you very much if we could look through that rag-bag together."
"Mercy on us!" exclaimed the woman, seized with a sudden dread that her young visitor might not be in his right senses.
"If I could find those pieces of black stuff," he urged, significantly, "it would be worth a golden guinea to me."
Sure, now, that he was a downright lunatic, she moved back from him with a frightened gesture; but glancing again at his bright, manly face, she said in a different tone:
"And it would be worth a golden guinea to me, young master, just to have the joy of finding them for you. Step right into this room, sir, and you, Nancy and Tom" (to a shy little pair who had been sitting, unobserved, on the lowest step of the clean, bare stairway), "you run up and drag the old piece-bag down to Mother. You shall have your way, young gentleman—though it's the oddest thing that ever happened to me."
The huge bag soon came tumbling down the stairs, with soft thuds; but the little forms that, for the time, had given it life and motion, did not appear. Donald gladly drew it into the little room, where his hostess soon extracted from its depths a portly black roll.
Alas! To the boyish mind a bundle made of scores of different sorts of black pieces rolled together is anything but expressive. On first opening it, Donald looked hopelessly at the motley heap; but the kind woman helped him somewhat by rapidly throwing piece after piece aside, with, "That can't be it—that's like little Tom's trousers;" "Nor that,—that's what I wore for poor mother;" "Nor that—that's to mend my John's Sunday coat;" and so on, till there were not more than a dozen scraps left. Of these, three showed that they had been cut with a pair of scissors, but the others were torn pieces, and of different kinds of black goods. Don felt these pieces, held them up to the light, and in despair, was just going to beg her to let him have them all for future investigation, when his face suddenly brightened.