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That night I teased John's mother into hunting up the dress, and there was the identical pattern, edging the fine white cambric now yellow with age. She was amused at my report of Miss Chrissy. In my annual journeyings to the old town I never neglected "The Pears." They always looked as if I had just stepped out for an hour, and come back.
Nor was there anything like duty to the Spottiswoodes to stand between Bourhope and Chrissy. But still Chrissy's nice sense of honour was disturbed, for had she not a guess that a very different result had been expected?
"Dear Chrissy," she said gently, "there is no need to fret over that now. Hatty was always fond of you, and you of her; she told me that night, when I came home, how kind you had been to her. There was no one but you to do things, and you were such a comfort to her." "How could I help being kind to her, when she was so ill, and there was the fear of losing her?
Miss Suffy's window overlooked a time honored graveyard, where gray slabs were tottering. Next to her beloved patterns and their varied experiences, Miss Chrissy liked to tell of scenes and memories suggested by these somber reminders. "It was a very cold day, Mrs. Poor fellow! He was shot at Buena Vista. A cannon-ball took off both his legs, and went right through the horse he rode.
"Don't you see, Chrissy," she said, "he reasoned this way: 'If she tell her mother a lie, she may tell me a lie some day too!?" So indeed the youth did reason; but it occurred to neither of his critics to note the fact that he would not have minded the girl's telling her mother the lie, if he could have been certain she would never tell HIM one!
She opined, nevertheless, that Tilda would find some good reading in it here and there; and Tilda, sharp as a needle, guessed what Miss Chrissy meant that a study of it would discourage an aspirant to good society from smiling up at it between her ankles. She forgave the divined intention of the gift, for the gift itself was precisely what her soul had been craving.
Mother says it comes of muzzing my head with books, and then putting two and two together and making 'em five. . . . It's fanciful, of course" here Chrissy sighed "things don't happen like that in real life. . . . But there's always been stories about Sir Miles; and when I saw the mark it is queer, now " But Tilda kept a steady face, her eyes fixed on the escutcheon.
Bourhope had this in common with Chrissy: he could entertain himself. During the first three days of the week, Bourhope was zealous in looking at, and attaching himself to, Corrie.
It never occurred to them to get a new one. Like their old Bible, its places could be found. I went, one frosty autumn day, to get a pattern for silk embroidery. Stamping-blocks and tracing-wheels were unknown quantities to Miss Chrissy. Her stumpy little pencil and that, too, seemed always the same had to do the transfering.
She had no ornaments in the way of jewellery, save a coral necklace; while Corrie had a set of amethysts real amethysts ear-rings, brooch, and necklace, and a gold cross and a gold watch, which she rarely wound up, and which was therefore, as Chrissy said, "a dead-alive affair."
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