"The Sewing Society!" her husband echoed. "Is that much to face?"
"I have not been once since I was married. And they make so much fuss about it, I must go now. They meet to-morrow at mother's."
"What do they sew?"
"They pretend to be making up a box for some missionary out west."
"I guess there is no pretence about it."
"Yes, there is. They have been eight months at work upon a box to go to Iowa somewhere, to a family very much in want of everything; and the children and mother are almost, or quite, I guess, in rags, and the ladies here are comfortably doing a little once a week, and don't even expect to have the box made up till Christmas time. Think of the people in Iowa waiting and waiting, with hardly anything to put on, while we meet once a week and sew a little, and talk, and have supper."
"How would you manage it?"
"I would send off the box next week, Basil."
"So would I. Suppose now we do?"
"Send off a box?"