Mrs. Bray was a pretty old woman. There was about her an effect of fragile bloom like that of her old cup. In her gray-and-lavender she was like a quaint pastel.
"There!" cried Myra, standing off to view the effect.
"I ain't agoin' to take it off!" declared old Mrs. Bray suddenly; and waited for the remonstrance.
Nellie had always said: "Why, mother! Of course you'll take it off right away! Wear your good clothes out at home!"
To her surprise, Myra assented. "Keep it on, and let Marvin see how fine you look."
"Wun't you need me about supper?"
"Now you just set and let me get supper alone to-night."
"I'll set the table," decided old Mrs. Bray. "I guess just laying plates won't hurt it none."
Myra set about her biscuits. Marvin had to have his hot bread. Suddenly she heard a little splintering crash, followed by a whimpering wail—"Myry! Oh, Myry! I've broke the sasser!" The last remnants of Nellie's saucer, with their pink, fluted edges like ravished petals, lay spread out at old Mrs. Bray's feet.
"Now ain't that just too bad! (I s'pose she was touching it, for old times' sake—and her trembly old fingers and all, she let it slip.) Never mind, Mother; you got the blue one yet. And mebbe that saucer can be mended—"