em--and he was a
great hand for marbles. Well, mother she kept 'em in her bureau drawer
for years, and whenever she'd open the bureau drawer it would make her
feel bad, 'cause she'd think of Willy, and after mother's death it
made me feel bad to see 'em, 'cause I'd think of Willy and mother,
too. Yet, somehow, I couldn't think of no way to put 'em in here till
suddenly it occurred to me in the night--'twas three weeks ago come
Friday--and I got up then and there and I covered 'em each with purple
silk and made 'em into that bunch of grapes on the extreme right."

Miss Roscoe turned to her audience, her face rapt, as is the face of
one who has gazed on a masterpiece. Annie recognized that now or never
was her chance to state the errand that had brought her, to break
through the strong reluctance that had held her at bay through the
interview. She rose and held out her hand.

"It is--wonderful," she looked toward the memorial, "and I can't tell
you how good it is of you to explain it all to me. I envy you the
power you have of making--_wonderful_ things." The adjective crowded
out every other in her vocabulary. "But I really came to ask you to do
something for me, Miss Roscoe," she smiled at the sphinxlike figure.
"I've been getting up a sort of fair, and it's going to be a great
success--everybody in the village has promised to help, and my New
York friends from Pungville are to give a sort of entertainment. I
thought, you know--that you'd like to help, too, so I came to see what
you'd be willing to do. We mean to have a sort of raffle."

Miss Roscoe maintained her air of pathetic sternness.

"And wouldn't you like to give something that we could take shares
in--something, perhaps, that you have made--one of your _what-not_
jars, or, if you're _very_ generous, why not the 'Memorial Fruit
Piece'?"

She stopped, somewhat staggered by the daring of her own suggestion.
Miss Pamela had replaced the yardstick in its corner, and Annie was
conscious of a vague relief when it was out of the way. She rested her
hand on the Bo-Peep chair and waited.

Miss Pamela folded her thin arms across her breast, and regarded her
calmly.

"Miss Jenkins, I don't think there's going to be any fair," she
remarked, succinctly.

The blood of youth boiled at the finality of it. "Oh, yes, there is,
Miss Roscoe; I told you that I'd made all the arrangements."

"Well, _I've_ been making some arrangements, too."

"And everybody's going to h