her, now that Nellie was gone.

Old Mrs. Bray said nothing. The pink cup had belonged to Nellie;
Marvin's had been blue. They had been old-time Christmas gifts; and they
had never been used. They were too fine to use. All those years they had
stood side by side on an upper shelf of the safe, along with the
majolica pickle-dish, the cracker-jar that Abbie Carter had painted in a
design of wheat-heads, the lemonade-set that George's wife had presented
upon the occasion of a visit, and a collection of little china
souvenirs--trays and miniature pitchers with "Souvenir of the Springs"
inscribed upon them.

"At least the saucer's safe," ventured Myra, after a pause. She had only
just come to live with old Mrs. Bray. She wondered how she would take
it. "Well--might's well sweep up the muss!"

Old Mrs. Bray spoke. Myra thought she detected a quiver in her voice:

"Pick 'em up," her mother-in-law directed, "and put 'em here in my
apron." Myra obeyed. Old Mrs. Bray gathered up her apron and went away
to her room. She did not emerge till nearly supper-time.

Once Myra had gone to her door. It was inhospitably closed. Myra thought
she detected a faint chinking sound. "Now I wonder"--thought Myra--"is
she agrievin' or asulkin'? I'd ruther it was asulkin'--an old pink chiny
cup! I'd buy her another, only I s'pose it wouldn't make it up to
her--Nellie's and all. Mebbe if I hurried and put off my waist, I could
finish up her challis. She don't need the challis, and I do the waist.
But mebbe it might take her mind off--losin' Nellie and then losin' the
cup. I expect that come hard to Mother Bray."

Myra smoothed her hair and put on a fresh afternoon percale. To see Myra
with her thin brown face, her slicked-back black hair which showed white
threads like ravellings, in her afternoon house-dress of gray percale,
one would never have taken her for a bride. Yet Myra had a very bridal
feeling, sitting in her own home, with her own sewing, instead of
running the machine in the shop, as she had done before her marriage.
That it was, in reality, her husband's mother's home, and her husband's
mother's sewing, scarcely altered the case. It was home, not shop. She
had been married in August, when work fell slack. Now it was October.
She had not broken anything until to-day.

Myra sewed and rocked and looked up at the framed portraits of Marvin
and Nellie and Frank as children--the girl in queer plaid, and a locket;
the boys in gilt-braide