,
as in every other household, garments were constantly wearing out, and
stitches breaking that must be again made good, and nothing could be
appreciated more than her services in this direction. Mother felt,
however, that she was doing wrong to let her work at all.

"Phebe," I heard her say one afternoon, as they sat in our middle room
together, "you have stitches enough to take at home, and I feel
condemned to see you so busy here. You should have every moment to rest
in; I wish you could stay longer, for I believe when these carpet rags
are cut you will find nothing more to do, and then we could rest and
talk together. How I wish Sally and Polly and Thirza could be with us,
and our brothers too! Have you heard from Peter lately?"

"I heard only a few days before I left; one of the girls came down, and
she said Peter was well, but oh, how they miss their own mother! Peter's
first wife was the best mother I ever knew; those little girls looked as
neat as pins, with their blue and iron-rust dresses, and she taught them
to do so much--not half do it, but to finish what they began. I think of
her with reverence, for her ways were in accordance with her ideas of
duty, and she was no ordinary woman. It seems too bad she could not have
lived."

And Aunt Phebe sighed, and then added:

"You ask what makes me work? Work has been my salvation. In the needs of
others I have forgotten my own terrible experiences, and although the
first time I washed a bedquilt I said 'I can never do that thing
again,' I have since then washed many; and done also the thousand kinds
of work that only a woman can do. Force of circumstances has made me
self-reliant, and so long as I can work I am not lonely, and if there
comes a day when the labor of my hands is less needed, I shall be only
too glad to take the time for reading I so much desire."

"Oh, Phebe!" said my mother, "I often think of you as you were when
young; slender and lithe as a willow, with a cheek where the rose's
strength did not often gather; and then I think of all you have done
since, and looking at you to-day, you seem to me a perfect marvel; for
you have lived, and borne hard work and sorrow, and your face is fresh,
your fingers taper as of old, and on your cheek is the tinge of pink
that becomes you so well. You are only five years younger than I, and
you look every day of twenty; you may outlive me--yes, I'm sure you
will."

There was silence for a few moments, and then