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She wants to cut a shine 'mong de angels, an' her quilt's most done, jus' one corner ob it lef'. Reckon ole miss done gone to carry her de pieces fur dat corner. Dere ain't much time lef', fur Aun' Patsy is pretty nigh dead now. She's ober two hunnerd years ole." "What!" exclaimed Master Junius, "two hundred?" "Yes, sah," answered Letty.
"What do you mean?" "The story is the quilt. Made of patches: this person's face, that person's love, a cat you knew . . . You make up the quilt the design but the strength of it, its integrity, comes from the patches." She finished her martini. Joe's eyes opened wide. "I have to think about that." "The quilt's the thing," she said offhandedly. "You have to care about it."
"Did you ever think, child," she said, presently, "how much piecin' a quilt's like livin' a life? And as for sermons, why, they ain't no better sermon to me than a patchwork quilt, and the doctrines is right there a heap plainer'n they are in the catechism. And that's like predestination. But when it comes to the cuttin' out, why, you're free to choose your own pattern.
What then?" asked Miss Maitland. "Well, I went. I run 'most all the way. I got there an' he wasn't. He wasn't at all!" "Do you mean that he had left the cottage?" "My suz! I should think he has. He's left, an' my log-cabin quilt's left, an' my best feather tick, an' pillows, an' a pair blankets that kitchen-bedroom bedstead's stripped as clean as 'twas the day it was born I mean, sot up.
With this view, he suffered him to pass on. Quilt's manner, indeed, was that of a man endeavouring to muster up sufficient resolution for the commission of some desperate crime. He halted, looked fearfully around, stopped again, and exclaimed aloud, "I don't like the job; and yet it must be done, or Mr. Wild will hang me."
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