The younger generation was inclined to scout at quilt-making, and needlework heresy was rampant in the neighbourhood.  Tatting, crocheting, and knitting were on the wane.  An “advanced” woman who had once spent a Summer in the village had spread abroad the delights of Battenberg and raised embroidery.  At all of these, Miss Hitty sniffed contemptuously.

“Quilt makin’ was good enough for their mas and their grandmas,” she said scornfully, “and I reckon it’s good enough for anybody else.  I’ve no patience with such things.”

Araminta knew that.  She had never forgotten the vial of wrath which broke upon her luckless head the day she had timorously suggested making lace as a pleasing change from unending quilts.

She sat now, in a low rocker by the window, with one foot upon a wobbly stool.  A marvellous cover, of Aunt Hitty’s making, which dated back to her frivolous and girlish days, was underneath.  Nobody ever saw it, however, and the gaudy woollen roses blushed unseen.  A white linen cover, severely plain, was put upon the footstool every Wednesday and every Saturday, year in and year out.

Unlike most good housewives, Miss Mehitable used her parlour every day in the week.  She was obliged to, in fact, for it was the only room in her house, except Mr. Thorpe’s, which commanded an unobstructed view of the crossroads.  A cover of brown denim protected the carpet, and the chairs were shrouded in shapeless habiliments of cambric and calico.  For the rest, however, the room was mildly cheerful, and had a habitable look which was distinctly uncommon in village parlours.

There was a fireplace, which was dusted and scrubbed at intervals, but never, under any circumstances, profaned by a fire.  It was curtained by a gay remnant of figured plush, however, so nobody missed the fire.  White and gold china vases stood on the mantel, and a little china dog, who would never have dared to bark had he been alive, so chaste and humble of countenance was he, sat forever between the two vases, keeping faithful guard over Miss Mehitable’s treasures.

The silver coffin plates of the Smiths, matted with black, and deeply framed, occupied the place of honour over the mantel.  On the marble-topped table in the exact centre of the room was a basket of wax flowers and fruit, covered by a bell-shaped glass shade.  Miss Hitty’s album and her Bible were placed near it with mathematical precision.  On the opposite wall was a hair wreath, made from the shorn locks of departed Smiths by Miss Hitty’s mother.  The proud possessor felt a covert reproach in the fact that she herself was unable to make hair wreaths.  It was a talent for which she had great admiration.

Araminta rocked back and forth in her low chair by the window.  She hummed a bit of “Sweet Bye and Bye” to herself, for hymns were the only songs she knew.  She could play some of them, with one hand, on the melodeon in the corner, but she dared not touch the yellow keys of the venerated instrument except when Miss Hitty was out.