engrossed with her life, but she dreamed sometimes of the other side
and the young man who had remarked upon the gowns she wore and put roses
in her hair, and she had ideas of lace and ribbons and the vanities of
the world in that early married period. Her attire was rich but severely
plain; she was not stinted in anything. She was even allowed to "lay by"
on her own account, which meant saving up a little money. She made a
good, careful wife. And some months before he died, touched by her
attentive care, her husband said:

"Silla, I don't see but you might as well have all I'm worth, as to
divide it round in the family. They will be disappointed, I suppose, but
they haven't earned nor saved. You have been a good wife, and you just
take your comfort on it when I'm gone. Then if you should feel minded to
give back some of it--why, that's your affair."

The Perkins family had _not_ liked it very well. They knew Aunt
Priscilla would marry again, and all that money go to a second husband.
But she had not married, though there had been opportunities. Later on
she almost wished she had. She had entertained plans of taking a girl to
bring up, and had considered this little orphaned Adams girl,--who she
had imagined in a vague way would be glad of a good home with a prospect
of some money,--if she behaved herself rightly. She had pictured a
stout, red-cheeked girl who needed training, and not a fine little lady
like Doris Adams.

But she was glad Doris had sat there on the rug with the cat in her lap.
And she was glad there had been the summer at Marblehead, and the young
man who had said more with his eyes than with his lips. He had never
married, and had been among the earliest to lay down his life for his
country. She always felt that in a way he belonged to her. And if in
youth she had had one good time, why shouldn't Betty? Perhaps Betty
might marry in some sensible way that would be for the best, and this
visit at Hartford would illume all her life.

There were things about it she had never confessed. When her conscience
upbraided her mightily she called them sins and prayed over them. There
were other matters--the white bonnet had been one. She had purchased it
of a friend who was going in mourning, who had made her try it on, and
said:

"Just look at yourself in the glass, Priscilla Perkins. You never had
anything half so becoming. You look five years younger!"

She did look in the glass. She could have pirouette