living things, having a being independent of the body to which they belonged. She rested them on the
table. She spoke again, caressingly.
"It is well to come now and then to a quiet place. To a place where peace is. One grows so weary-so
weary. So tired-so very tired."
She picked a little dress from the table and began to sew. Long white fingers plied the needle while the
other hand turned and moved the small garment. How wonderful was the motion of those long white
hands…like a rhythm…like a song…restful!
She said, in low sweet tones:
"Ah, yes-here nothing of the outer world comes. All is peace-and rest-rest-"
I drew my eyes reluctantly from the slow dance of those hands, the weaving of those long and delicate