She brought her knitting in a little gingham bag on her arm, and there was no way to get rid of her or of her coming talk, which, I confess, I dreaded.

“Oh, dear!” I said to Clara, “that wretched meddler is coming.  What shall we do with her?”

“I will try and help you, Emily.  Perhaps she has a good heart after all, and meddles only because her conditions in life have fitted her for nothing better.”

“It isn’t so, Clara; she tells stories about everybody; I would not believe her under oath.”

“Charity,” she said softly, and through the door came Jane.

“Good afternoon, Emily.”

“Take a seat,” I said, bowing.

“Good afternoon, Mis’ Densin,” to Clara.

“Mrs. De-mond,” I said, pronouncing the name rather forcibly.

“Oh! De-mond is it?” with accent on the first syllable

“That is more like it,” said Clara.  “How do you do to-day? let me take your things.”

“Don’t feel very scrumptious, and ain’t sick neither, kinder so so.  How are all here?  I heard Mis’ Minot was gone.  Ain’t you lonesome?”

“We do miss her sadly,” said Clara.

“Gone to a weddin’, ain’t she?” I laughed aloud.

“Only for a change,” said Clara.

“Why, Mis’ Grover”—­

Clara waited for no news, but said quickly: 

“You were very kind, thinking we were lonely, to come over and see.  Come into the other side of the house,” and she led the way to her sitting-room.

“Oh! ain’t this be-yoo-ti-ful!  What a wonderful change from the old side of this house!  I declare, I should think Mr. Minot would be thankful enough for this addition to his house.”

“Oh!  I am the one to be thankful,” said Clara, “he was so kind as to build it for me.”

“Oh! he built it, hey; with his own money, did he?”

“Certainly, he never would use any other person’s.  Cousin Minot in a very nice man.”

“Is he your cousin?” said Jane in astonishment.

“Why, of course he is.  Did you not know of it?”

“Never heard of it before.”

“What are you knitting?” said Clara.

“Stockings,” was the monosyllabled reply.

“Did you ever knit silk?”

“Shouldn’t think I did.  I ain’t grand enough to afford that.”

“You could, though, I know,” said Clara.

“Why, I dunno,—­praps so.”  Jane North was foiled, and she succumbed as gracefully as she could, although awkwardly enough; but Clara went on: 

“I have some beautiful silk thread, I have had it for years.  My grandfather’s people, over in France, were silk weavers.  It is through my mother that I am related to Mr. Minot; my father’s people were French,” she said, noticing an incredulous look in the eyes of Jane.  “I have a lot of silk in thread and floss:  I’ll get the box and show it to you,” and she did.

My own curiosity led me into the room—­I had stood back of the door all this time—­and the silk was beautiful; rich dark shades and fancy colors mingled, and a quantity of it too.  Although kept so long, it was strong, having been of such fine material.