legs, wore an antediluvian look, and the chairs were just as queer. The more aspiring ones were prim in starched antimaccassars. Even the footstools belonged to a prehistoric age. There was nothing costly or elegant, but so very ancient and even comical, I had never seen anything like it, anywhere. A few oil-paintings, hung in the very border of the huge-figured paper, were small, but evidently fine.

"These things were brought from Alsace," explained Miss Chrissy, as I commented freely. "Elsace is the way to call it—and we can't bear to have strangers meddling with what is sacred to us."

"Sacred to us," came from the procession behind.

At last, pausing before a huge hair trunk, they all gathered nearer, and when the lid was raised, they vied with one another in displaying the contents. It would take a great while to tell all that I saw, or their curious little speeches and words and assents. There were samplers in every style of lettering and color. The inevitable tombstone, with the weeping-willow and mourning female, was among them. Bits of painted velvet, huge reticules, bead purses; gay shawls, and curious lace caps—all showed patient handiwork. Gifts and souvenirs were plentiful, even to the blue silk keepsake of the first Mrs. John. Then came old-fashioned silver spoons and knives and tea-pots, heir-looms, they said, from the old country. A bit of coarse paper bore an order for supplies for soldiers upon the Commissaire at Nice, and was signed with the genuine autograph of the great Napoleon. Every article had its history, and rarely, if ever, was the little work-shop so long neglected as on that occasion. When the procession filed back, I took leave with somewhat the feeling of having been buried in wonderland, and suddenly resurrected.

Perhaps the shock of the dreaded vandalism was too much. Perhaps the excitement of the hair trunk struck too deep. At all events. Miss Becky grew to muttering over her quilt, and making long pauses. One day her needle stuck fast in the patchwork, and her head quietly sank to rest on the rolled frame. When I paid my next visit, they said, "You will find it very odd at The Pears's. Miss Becky is gone."

I did find it odd. The quilt was rolled forever, and the end window was empty. There was only the chair. Still Miss Suffy sat with her stocking, and Miss Chrissy with her patterns, placid and patient,—they were only waiting; yet working as they waited. Miss Polly sighed once in a while over her pans. Miss Phoebe still went to market and distributed small alms to the poor. Ripe in good works and in holy resignation were The Pears.

"Our quilter is gone," said Miss Chrissy. This time there was no whispered echo; only a gentle sighing all around. But some of the scallops in the yellow box were not without fresh adventures; and these I heard.

That winter, Miss Phoebe fell on the slippery little side alley. There were no bones broken, but she, too, sank to rest in the old gray churchyard.

It was three years before I went back. Then they said, "Miss Chrissy is alone." Alone I found her. She was little changed. The brightness had merely gone from her smile. I noticed that her talk was less of her patterns, and more of the gray slabs. She no longer clung to the proud little boast, "I design my own patterns." She was apt to tell what Suffy said, or Polly, or Phoebe, not forgetting Becky, our quilter.

"No," she said, when I asked: "Polly was not sick. She said in the morning, 'Chrissy, do you ever feel strange in your head?' Next morning she did not wake up. Suffy was never as strong as the rest—her back was bad; so when she had a sort of fit one day, it was soon over."

"You don't—you can't—stay here all alone?"

"No, Mrs. John, Henrietta is with me. You know Henrietta? She belongs to the people down stairs. I shan't forget her kindness."

"Are you very lonely, Miss Chrissy?" I asked, choking down the tears.

"No, not lonely. The dear Lord is with me; He will stay to the end. No, Mrs. John, not lonely."

She had always refrained, in diffidence, or humility, from religious talk. I know it was from no lack of deep spiritual conviction. If ever the world contained a purer, sweeter sisterhood, I have not known it. Their work was homely, as their lives were secluded, but no one ever saw them idle or impatient. In one straight and narrow path they walked through earth's temptations to heaven's reward.

One of the last things she said to me was that I should take some of the choicest patterns to my western home, notably "little John's first short dress edge."

"You have been a helper to us in more ways than one. God will bless you, Mrs. John."

"Is there nothing you would have me do now? Dear Miss Chrissy, do not hesitate to speak."

She did hesitate. "I don't think of anything. My papers have long been drawn up. Lawyer Thomas will attend to them. You know our little savings are to go to the Home for Aged Women."

I never saw her again. Sitting one day, placid and patient, she fell asleep over the yellow box; and when they lifted the soft white old face, all was still.

The Ghost at Crestdale

AN ADVENTURE

"Here we are, safe and sound," cheerily said the driver of the huge black ambulance, as he pulled up before the piazza of Crestdale, the beautiful villa whose tower had been tantalizing the travelers for several miles.

A party of five descended from the wagon as the wide doors were flung open by the housekeeper, and a kindly welcome greeted them, as well as comfortable fires.

"My! how cold it is," exclaimed a fresh young voice, as the speaker hurried close to the generous heater.

"Be careful, dear, or you will burn your coat," warned an older lady, while a stalwart young fellow tenderly loosed the seal wrap in question.

Placing the fair wearer in a great arm-chair, he said: "There, Mademoiselle Jessie, be a good girl—if you can. Now, sister ours, what can I do for you?" turning gallantly to the other lady.

"Thanks, you foolish boy," was the pleasant rejoinder; "look after those parcels and those live commodities shivering there."

The live commodities were a maltese cat, a canary bird, and two raw recruits from Erin; and the "foolish boy" at once set about assigning places for people and things.

"There's a kitchen somewhere back here; come along, Michael. All right, Katie, follow me, and fetch the menagerie with you."

Duly installing them in their domain, the young man made his way back through the wide, chilly rooms that intervened, and joined the ladies who were fast making themselves at home.

"A trifle bleak this, isn't it?" he said, rubbing his hands before the blazing logs. "But just take note of that fragrant beefsteak. Say, girls, I don't see any table set anywhere;" and he looked ruefully around.

"Give us time, sir," remonstrated the elderly lady. "Here is a move in the right direction already," she added, as the housekeeper entered with the tea tray.

"Mabel, can't we have muffins?" pleaded the young voice.

"Muffins! Not on such short notice; but you may have toast and eggs."

"You'll disenchant me with your enormous appetite," chaffed the young fellow, and got a saucy slap for his pains.

"Riding hours and hours on that horrid train is enough to starve any one," was the ready defense; "you only came from New York. Come on, everybody, while the steak is hot." And they gathered