82 A WHITE-PAPER GARDEN 



children. I do not know where she came 

 from, nor who were her kindred. Where 

 rests the little handful of dust which was 

 once her tiny, alert body I know, but even 

 that everyone else seems to have forgotten, 

 since beside the handful of pansies I take 

 there, once in a while, no one ever seems to 

 give a flower to her who gave so many to 

 others. I do not know what was in her 

 house, for I never entered it, and I have no 

 idea what became of her during the long white 

 days that closed down soon after the last tiny 

 pink and yellow chrysanthemums had faded 

 under her windows. When she went to the 

 Methodist meeting-house she wore a black 

 silk gown, with a handsome lace shawl draped 

 carefully over her shoulders, and she carried 

 a fringed parasol in her lace-gloved hands. 

 Always, I think, since I do not recollect her 

 in any other robes of state, so she must have 

 belonged to summer ; and other of my old 

 ladies I can recall as having furs and velvet 

 pelisses, and plumes in their bonnets. My 

 only communications with her were the fervent 

 thanks with which I received the bounty her 

 good hands held out in answer to the appeal 



