Lydia’s constant cry was:  “Ah, don’t destroy that; I remember that ever since I was a baby!” Sally was more apt to say:  “I believe I could use this; it’s old, but it could be put in order cheaper than buying new!” Martie was the iconoclast.

“Now here’s this great roll of silk from Grandmother Price’s wedding dress; what earthly good is this to any one?” she would demand briskly.  “And here’s the patchwork quilt Ma started when Len was a baby, with all the patches pinned together!  Why should we keep these things?  And Lydia’s sketch-books, when she was taking lessons, and the old air-tight stove, and Pa’s brother’s dentist chair—­it’s hopelessly old-fashioned now!  And what about these piles and piles of Harper’s and Scribner’s, and the broken washstand that was in Belle’s, room and the curtains, that used to be in the back hall?  I move we have a bonfire and keep it going all day—­”

“I’d forgotten that the old rocking-horse was here,” Sally said one day, with pleasure.  “The boys will love it!  And do you know, Lyd, I was thinking that this little table with the leg mended and painted white wouldn’t be a bit bad in my hall.  I really need a table there, for Joe brings in his case, or the children get the mail—­we’d have lots of use for it.  And here’s the bedside table, that’s an awfully good thing to have, because in case of illness—­”

“Heavens!” said Martie.  “She’s trying to break something to us; she suspects that there may be an illness some day in her house—­”

“Oh, I do not!” said Sally, flushing and giggling in the old way.

“Len’s first little suit,” Lydia mused.  “Dear me—­dear me!  And this old table-cover; I remember when that was new!  And here are Aunt Carrie’s things; she sent Ma a great box of them when she died; look, Sally, the old-fashioned sleeves with fibre-chamois in them!  This box is full of hats; this was my Merry Widow hat; it was always so pretty I hated to destroy it, but I suppose it really isn’t much good!  I wonder if some poor woman could use it.  And these are all old collars of Pa’s and Len’s—­it seems a shame to throw them away.  I wonder if we could find some one who wears this size?  Martie, don’t throw that coat over there in the pile for the fire—­it’s a good piece of serge, and that cape style may come in again!”

Absorbed and interested, the three worked among memories.  Sometimes for an hour at a time there was silence in the attic.  Martie, with a faded pink gingham dress spread across her lap, would be eight again, trotting off to school with Sally, and promising Ma to hold Len’s hand when they crossed Main Street.  How clean and trim, how ready for the day, she had felt, when her red braid was tied with a brown ribbon, and this little garment firmly buttoned down the back, and pressed with a great sweep of Ma’s arms to crush the too stiffly starched skirt!