is blessed’; that’s what Mr. Lorimer said in his sermon the Sunday after she died, and there wasn’t a blood-relation there to hear it.  I declare it looked pitiful to see that pew empty that ought to ha’ been the mourners’ pew.  Your mother, Mis’ Lancaster, had to go home Saturday, your father was going away sudden to Washington, I’ve understood, and she come back again the first of the week.  There! it didn’t make no sort o’ difference, p’r’aps nobody thought of it but me.  There hadn’t been anybody in the pew more than a couple o’ times since she used to sit there herself, regular as Sunday come.”  And Mrs. Patton looked for a minute as if she were going to cry, but she changed her mind upon second thought.

“Your mother gave me most of Miss Katharine’s clothes; this cap belonged to her, that I’ve got on now; it’s ’most wore out, but it does for mornings.”

“O,” said Kate, “I have two new ones for you in one of my trunks!  Mamma meant to choose them herself, but she had not time, and so she told me, and I think I found the kind she thought you would like.”

“Now I’m sure!” said Mrs. Patton, “if that ain’t kind; you don’t tell me that Mis’ Lancaster thought of me just as she was going off?  I shall set everything by them caps, and I’m much obliged to you too, Miss Kate.  I was just going to speak of that time you were here and saw the mug; you trimmed a cap for Miss Katharine to give me, real Boston style.  I guess that box of cap-fixings is up on the top shelf of Miss Katharine’s closet now, to the left hand,” said Mrs. Patton, with wistful certainty.  “She used to make her every-day caps herself, and she had some beautiful materials laid away that she never used.  Some folks has laughed at me for being so particular ’bout wearing caps except for best, but I don’t know’s it’s presuming beyond my station, and somehow I feel more respect for myself when I have a good cap on.  I can’t get over your mother’s rec’lecting about me; and she sent me a handsome present o’ money this spring for looking after the house.  I never should have asked for a cent; it’s a pleasure to me to keep an eye on it, out o’ respect to your aunt.  I was so pleased when I heard you were coming long o’ your friend.  I like to see the old place open; it was about as bad as having no meeting.  I miss seeing the lights, and your aunt was a great hand for lighting up bright; the big hall lantern was lit every night, and she put it out when she went up stairs.  She liked to go round same’s if it was day.  You see I forget all the time she was sick, and go back to the days when she was well and about the house.  When her mind was failing her, and she was up stairs in her room, her eyesight seemed to be lost part of the time, and sometimes she’d tell us to get the lamp and a couple o’ candles in the middle o’ the day, and then she’d be as satisfied!  But she used to take a notion to set in the dark, some nights, and think, I s’pose.  I should have forty fits, if I undertook it.  That was a good while ago; and do you rec’lect how she used to play the piano?  She used to be a great hand to play when she was young.”