'Yes, dear,' she said; 'I do think it would be very nice indeed. I am sure it would please your mamma. I am almost sure I can give you two of the soiled ones that you can undo and cover and line freshly. If you undo them carefully, you will see exactly how they are made without my helping you. You would rather make them all by yourselves, would you not?'
'Yes,' said Kathie, 'if we can. It would be much nicer, as they are to be presents to our mothers. Thank you so much, aunty.'
'I will bring down the bundle of old pieces this evening, if you like,' Miss Clotilda went on. 'I know exactly where they are; I can put my hand upon them in a moment. It will amuse us to look them over and choose which will do.'
And the kind creature set off up-stairs at once to fetch them, while Kathie, overjoyed, ran to tell Philippa the success of her application.
The pieces of silk proved quite as interesting as they expected.
'It reminds me,' said Miss Clotilda, with a smile, 'of Mrs. Goodrich in "The Fairchild Family," a story I read when I was little, when she gave Bessy and Lucy and Emily each two pieces of old brocaded silk or satin as a test of their neat-handedness. You have never seen the book, but it was a very favourite one of mine as a child.'
And she went on to tell them the rest of the story of the patches of silk, how the good little girls turned theirs to purpose, and how the poor naughty girl threw a bottle of ink over hers.
'Poor naughty girl!' said Kathie. 'I am afraid I must be rather like her, aunty. And Philippa is like all the good little girls rolled into one. Oh, aunty! what a lovely piece that is!'
It was a narrow satin and silk stripe of a curious salmon colour, and here and there were little daisies embroidered in gold thread. There was another pale grey satin, with wreaths of flowers running all over it, which was greatly to Philippa's taste; and as there was enough for the purpose of each of these, Miss Clotilda gave them to the children. Then a letter had to be written to be sent by the carrier to the draper's at Hafod, where Mrs. Wynne had always dealt, to order a yard of plain rose-coloured silk for Philippa, and the same quantity of white for Kathie, as linings for both pincushions. A contrast would be best, Miss Clotilda told them, as it was all but impossible to match the strange and delicate shades of the old silks, except perhaps in very rich and expensive materials. Bedtime had come before all this was done, and the children went off to dream of 'flowered padusoy,' and pearl-grey satins 'that would stand alone.'