“Dorcas. Who is that for?”
“The name of the man who made it,” replied Judith, stopping her dawdling and threading her needle.
“I think not.”
“His little girl’s name, perhaps,” ventured Judith.
“It may be, for aught I know; but I do not think that is the name of the wool.”
“Then I don’t know,” said Judith, interestedly.
“I know something and I will tell you. A long, long, long time ago, there was a little girl; I think she learned to sew when she was a little girl, for she knew how to sew beautifully, and her work was strong and did not rip easily. Perhaps she began by doing disagreeable things and then went on to other things until she learned how to make coats and garments for children and grown-up people. Her name was Dorcas.”
“Did the man who made the wool into yarn know about her?” asked Judith.
“I think so. Almost everybody does.”
“I never heard of her before. Is that all?”