e way, and leave some
rags for a rug with old Mrs. Pease, so that the journey could be made
as profitable as possible, consistent with the loss of time and the wear
and tear on her second-best black dress.

The red-winged black hat was forcibly removed from Rebecca's head just
before starting, and the nightmare turban substituted.

"You might as well begin to wear it first as last," remarked Miranda,
while Jane stood in the side door and sympathized secretly with Rebecca.

"I will!" said Rebecca, ramming the stiff turban down on her head with a
vindictive grimace, and snapping the elastic under her long braids; "but
it makes me think of what Mr. Robinson said when the minister told him
his mother-in-law would ride in the same buggy with him at his wife's
funeral."

"I can't see how any speech of Mr. Robinson's, made years an' years ago,
can have anything to do with wearin' your turban down to Union," said
Miranda, settling the lap robe over her knees.

"Well, it can; because he said: Have it that way, then, but it'll spile
the hull blamed trip for me!'"

Jane closed the door suddenly, partly because she experienced a desire
to smile (a desire she had not felt for years before Rebecca came to
the brick house to live), and partly because she had no wish to overhear
what her sister would say when she took in the full significance of
Rebecca's anecdote, which was a favorite one with Mr. Perkins.

It was a cold blustering day with a high wind that promised to bring an
early fall of snow. The trees were stripped bare of leaves, the
ground was hard, and the wagon wheels rattled noisily over the
thank-you-ma'ams.

"I'm glad I wore my Paisley shawl over my cloak," said Miranda. "Be you
warm enough, Rebecca? Tie that white rigolette tighter round your neck.
The wind fairly blows through my bones. I most wish t we'd waited till
a pleasanter day, for this Union road is all up hill or down, and we
shan't get over the ground fast, it's so rough. Don't forget, when you
go into Scott's, to say I want all the trimmin's when they send me the
pork, for mebbe I can try out a little mite o' lard. The last load o'
pine's gone turrible quick; I must see if "Bijah Flagg can't get us some
cut-rounds at the mills, when he hauls for Squire Bean next time. Keep
your mind on your drivin', Rebecca, and don't look at the trees and the
sky so much. It's the same sky and same trees that have been here right
along. Go awful slow down this hill