twisted the golden flax in
imitation of the way Aunt Maria had once taught her.

"I'll weave a new dress for myself--oh, goody!" she cried, springing
from the stool. "Now I know what I'll do! I'll dress up in the old
clothes in that old trunk! That'll be the very best party I can have."

She skipped to a far corner of the attic, where a long, leather-covered
trunk stood among some boxes. In a moment the clasps were unfastened,
the lid raised, a protecting cloth lifted from the top and the contents
of the trunk exposed.

The child, kneeling before the trunk, clasped her hands and uttered an
ecstatic, "Oh, I'll be a primer donner now! I remember there used to be
a wonderful fine dress in here somewhere."

With childish feverishness, yet with tenderness and reverence for the
relics of a long dead past, she lifted the old garments from the trunk.

"The baby clothes my mom wore--my mother, Miss Lee always says, and I
like that name better, too. My, but they're little! Such tweeny, weeny
sleeves! I wonder how a baby ever got into anything so tiny. I bet she
was cunning--Miss Lee says babies are cunning. And here's the dress and
cap and a pair of white woolen stockings I wore. Aunt Maria told me so
the last time we cleaned house and I helped to carry all these things
down-stairs and hang them out in the air so they don't spoil here in the
trunk all locked up tight. I wish I could see how I looked when I wore
these things. I wonder if I was a nice baby--but, ach, all babies are
nice. I could squeeze every one I see, only when they're not clean I'd
want to wash 'em first. And here's my mom--mother's wedding dress, a
gray silk one. Ain't it too bad, now, it's going in holes! And this
satin jacket Aunt Maria said my grandpap wore at his wedding; it has a
silver buckle at the neck in front. And next comes the dress I like. It
was my mother's mother's, and it's awful old. But I think it's fine,
with the little pink rosebuds and the lace shawl round the neck and the
long skirt. That's the dress I must wear now to play I'm a primer
donner."

She held out the old-fashioned pink-sprigged muslin, yellowed with age,
yet possessing the charm of old, well-preserved garments. The short,
puffed sleeves, lace fichu and full, puffed skirt proclaimed it of a
bygone generation.

"It's pretty," the child exulted as she shook out the soft folds. "Guess
I can slip it on over my other dress, it's plenty big. It must button in
the front, for t