“I never look at a great needle-book, (’housewife,’ we used to call it,) full of all possible and impossible contrivances and conveniences, without recalling my Aunt Hovey’s patient smile when she gave it to me.  She was rheumatic, and confined for twenty years to her chair; and these ‘housewives’ she made exquisitely, and each of her young friends on her wedding-day might count on one.  Then Sebiah Collins,—­she brought me a bag of holders,—­poor old soul!  And Aunt Patty Hobbs gave me a bundle of rags!  She said, ‘Young housekeepers was allers a-wantin’ rags, and, in course, there wa’n’t nothin’ but what was bran’-new out of the store.’  Can I ever forget the Hill children, with their mysterious movements, their hidings, and their unaccountable absences? and then the work-basket on my toilet-table, on my wedding-morning! the little pin-cushions and emery-sacks, the fantastic thimble-cases, and the fish-shaped needle-books! all as nice as their handy little fingers could make, and every stitch telling of their earnest love and bright faces!—­Every one of those children is dead.  But I keep the work-basket sacred.  I don’t know whether it is more pleasure or pain.”

She looked up again, as if before her passed a long procession.  I had often seen that expression in the eyes of old, and even of middle-aged persons, who had had much mental vicissitude, but I had not interpreted it till now.  It was only for a moment; and she added, cheerfully,—­

“The future is always pleasant; so we will look that way.”

Just then a gentleman wished to see Mr. Sampson on business, and they two went into the library.

Mrs. Harris talked on, and I led the way to the parlor.  She said she should be called for presently; and then Laura lighted the argand, and dropped the muslin curtains.

“Oh, isn’t this sweet?” exclaimed Mrs. Harris, rapturously, approaching the table.  “How the best work of Art pales before Nature!”

It was only a tall small vase of ground glass, holding a pond-lily, fully opened.  But it was perfect in its way, and I knew by the smile on Laura’s lips that it was her gift.

“Mine is in that corner, Delphine,” said Mrs. Harris.  “I wouldn’t have it brought here till to-night, when I could see Laura, for fear you should have a duplicate.  So here is my Mercury, that I have looked at till I love it.  I wouldn’t give you one that had only the odor of the shop about it; but you will never look at this, Del, without thoughts of our little cozy room and your old friend.”

“Beautiful!  No, indeed!  Always!” murmured I.

She drew a little box from her pocket, and took out of it a taper-stand of chased silver.

“Mrs. Gore asked me to bring it to you, with her love.  She wouldn’t send it yesterday, she said, because it would look so like nothing by the side of costly gifts.  Pretty, graceful little thing! isn’t it?  It is an evening-primrose, I think,—­’love’s own light,’—­hey, Delphine?”