Miss Perkins at home altering the waistband of the
skirt and the hooks on the bodice, as there had been some difficulty in
fitting Mrs Yabsley's enormous girth.

Mrs Yabsley's thoughts came to a sudden stop as she reached the steep
part of the hill. On a steep grade her brain ceased to work, and her
body became a huge, stertorous machine, demanding every ounce of
vitality to force it an inch farther up the hill. Always she had to
fight for wind on climbing a hill, but lately a pain like a knife in
her heart had accompanied the suffocation, robbing her of all power of
locomotion. The doctor had said that her heart was weak, but, judging
by the rest of her body, that was nonsense, and a sniff at the medicine
before she threw it away had convinced her that he was merely guessing.

When she reached the cottage she was surprised to find it in darkness,
but, thinking no harm, took the key from under the doormat and went in.
She lit the candle and looked round, as Jonah had done one night ten
years ago. The room was unchanged. The walls were stained with grease
and patches of dirt, added, slowly through the years as a face gathers
wrinkles. The mottoes and almanacs alone differed. She looked round,
wondering what errand had taken Miss Perkins out at that time of night.
She was perplexed to see a sheet of paper with writing on it pinned to
the table. Miss Perkins knew she was no scholar. Why had she gone out
and left a note on the table? The pain eased in her heart, and
strength came back slowly to her limbs as the suffocation in her throat
lessened. At last she was able to think. She had left Miss Perkins
busy with her needle and cotton, and she noticed with surprise that the
clothes were gone.

With a sudden suspicion she went into the bedroom with the candle, and
looked in the wardrobe made out of six yards of cretonne. The black
cashmere dress, the fur tippet, and the box containing the toque with
jet trimmings were gone! She shrank from the truth, and, candle in
hand, examined every room, searching the most unlikely corners for the
missing articles. She came back and, taking the note pinned to the
table, stared at it with intense curiosity. What did these black
scratches mean? For the first time in her life she wished she were
scholar enough to read. She had had no schooling and when she grew up
it seemed a poor way to spend the time reading, when you might be
talking. Somebody always told you what was