Miss Mehitable had a secret fear that the bloom had been brushed from her rose.  Until the accident, Araminta had scarcely been out of her sight since she brought her home, a toddling infant.  Miss Mehitable’s mind had unerringly controlled two bodies until Araminta fell off the ladder.  Now, the other mind began to show distressing signs of activity.

By dint of extra work, Araminta’s eighth patchwork quilt was made for quilting, and the Ladies’ Aid Society was invited to Miss Mehitable’s for the usual Summer revelry of quilting and gossip.  Miss Evelina was invited, but refused to go.

After the festivity was over, Miss Mehitable made a fruitful excavation into a huge chest in the attic, and emerged, flushed but happy, with enough scraps for three quilts.

“This here next quilt, Minty,” she said, with the air of one announcing a pleasant surprise, “will be the Risin’ Sun and Star pattern.  It’s harder ‘n the others, and that’s why I’ve kep’ it until now.  You’ve done all them other quilts real good,” she added, grudgingly.

Araminta had her own surprise ready, but it was not of a pleasant nature.  “Thank you, Aunt Hitty,” she replied, “but I’m not going to make any more quilts, for a while, at any rate.”

Miss Mehitable’s lower jaw dropped in amazement.  Never before had Araminta failed to obey her suggestions.  “Minty,” she said, anxiously, “don’t you feel right?  It was hot yesterday, and the excitement, and all—­I dunno but you may have had a stroke.”

Araminta smiled—­a lovable, winning smile.  “No, I haven’t had any ‘stroke,’ but I’ve made all the quilts I’m going to until I get to be an old woman, and have nothing else to do.”

“What are you layin’ out to do, Minty?” demanded Miss Mehitable.

“I’m going to be outdoors all I want to, and I’m going up to Miss Evelina’s and play with my kitten, and help you with the housework, or do anything else you want me to do, but—­no more quilts,” concluded the girl, firmly.

“Araminta Lee!” cried Miss Mehitable, speech having returned.  “If I ain’t ashamed of you!  Here’s your poor old aunt that’s worked her fingers to the bone, slaving for you almost ever since the day you was born, and payin’ a doctor’s outrageous bill of four dollars and a half—­or goin’ to pay,” she corrected, her conscience reproaching her, “and you refusin’ to mind!

“Haven’t I took good care of you all these eighteen years?  Haven’t I set up with you when you was sick and never let you out of my sight for a minute, and taught you to be as good a housekeeper as any in Rushton, and made you into a first-class seamstress, and educated you myself, and looked after your religious training, and made your clothes?  Ain’t I been father and mother and sister and brother and teacher and grandparents all rolled into one?  And now you’re refusin’ to make quilts!”

Araminta’s heart reproached her, but the blood of some fighting ancestor was in her pulses now.  “I know, Aunt Hitty,” she said, kindly, “you’ve done all that and more, and I’m not in the least ungrateful, though you may think so.  But I’m not going to make any more quilts!”