of old newspapers, old ledgers, old letter-backs, began to
accumulate in heaps,--everything but books, for Jane had a religious
respect for their recondite lore; she cut the margins off the magazines,
and she grew miserly of the very shreds ravelling under Vivia's fingers.
At length, one morning, after she had watched the windows unweariedly as
a cat watches a mouse-hole, she hurriedly exclaimed,--

"There he is!"

"Who" asked Mrs. Vennard as hurriedly, with a dim idea that people in
their State received visits from the sheriff.

"Our treasurer!" said little Jane.

And, indeed, the red cart crowned with yellow brooms and dazzling tin,
the delight of housewives in lone places, was winding along the road;
and in a few moments little Jane accosted its driver, standing
victorious in the midst of her bags and bundles and baskets.

"How much were white rags?"

"Twelve cents."

Laconic, through the urgencies of tobacco.

"What?"

"Twelve cents."

"And colored?"

"Wal, they were consider'ble."

"And paper?"

"Six cents. 'T used to be half a cent Six cents now."

"But the reason?" breathlessly.

"Reckoned 'twas the war's much as anything."

One good thing out of Nazareth! Little Jane saw herself on the road to
riches, and immediately had thoughts of selling the whole
household-equipment for rags. She displayed her commodities.

"Did he pay in money?"

"Didn't like to; but then he did."

"Fine day, to-day."

"Wal, 'twas."

And when the reluctant tinman went on his way again, she returned to
spread the fabulous result before her mother. There were sugars and
spices and whatnot. And though--woe worth the day!--she found that the
sum yielded only half what once it would, still, by drinking her own tea
in its acritude, they would do admirably; for tea even little Jane
required as her tonic, and without it felt like nothing but a mollusk.

All this was very well, so far as it went; but the thrifty housekeeper
soon found that it went no way at all. Those for whom she made her
efforts wanted none of their results. She would have given all she had
in the world to help these suffering beings; but her little cooking and
concocting were all that she could do, and those they disregarded
utterly. When in the dull forenoon she would have enlivened Vivia with
her precious elderberry-wine, that a connoisseur must taste twice before
telling from purplest Port, and Vivia only wet her lips at it, or when
she carried