fits," said Doris, with a
patient little smile, thinking of Penelope's uncultivated talent for
music and her own housewifely gifts, which had small chance of
flowering out in her business life.

Doris dreamed of pretty dresses all that night and thought about them
all the next day. So, it must be confessed, did Penelope, though she
would not have admitted it for the world.

When Doris reached home the next evening, she found Penelope hovering
over a bulky parcel on the sitting-room table.

"I'm so glad you've come," she said with an exaggerated gasp of
relief. "I really don't think my curiosity could have borne the strain
for another five minutes. The expressman brought this parcel an hour
ago, and there's a letter for you from Aunt Adella on the clock shelf,
and I think they belong to each other. Hurry up and find out. Dorrie,
darling, what if it should be a--a--present of some sort or other!"

"I suppose it can't be anything else," smiled Doris. She knew that
Penelope had started out to say "a new dress." She cut the strings
and removed the wrappings. Both girls stared.

"Is it--it isn't--yes, it is! Doris Hunter, I believe it's an old
quilt!"

Doris unfolded the odd present with a queer feeling of disappointment.
She did not know just what she had expected the package to contain,
but certainly not this. She laughed a little shakily.

"Well, we can't say after this that Aunt Adella never gave us
anything," she said, when she had opened her letter. "Listen,
Penelope."

_My Dear Doris_:

_I have decided to give up housekeeping and go out West to
live with Robert. So I am disposing of such of the family
heirlooms as I do not wish to take with me. I am sending you
by express your Grandmother Hunter's silk quilt. It is a
handsome article still and I hope you will prize it as you
should. It took your grandmother five years to make it. There
is a bit of the wedding dress of every member of the family in
it. Love to Penelope and yourself._

_Your affectionate aunt,
Adella Hunter._

"I don't see its beauty," said Penelope with a grimace. "It may have
been pretty once, but it is all faded now. It is a monument of
patience, though. The pattern is what they call 'Little Thousands,'
isn't it? Tell me, Dorrie, does it argue a lack of proper respect for
my ancestors that I can't feel very enthusiastic over this
heirloom-