Mrs. Staples' Silk Dress.
"I WISH to goodness Mrs. Brown would bring home my dress," said Mrs. Staples as she set the breakfast on the table and took her place behind the coffee-pot. "No signs of it yet, and here it is almost Thanksgiving." "Don't fret, Hannah," said her husband, "you can do without it if it don't come, can't you?" "Do you suppose I want to wear that old gray alpaca again?" demanded Mrs. Staples, a little irritably. "I've worn it every Thanksgiving day for three years, and I'm about tired of seeing myself in it. And I don't want Giles to be ashamed of me before his sweetheart." "O well, like as not the dress'll be here on time," said Mr. Staples soothingly. "Don't cross a bridge before you come to it, Hannah." At this moment a timid, hesitating knock sounded on the kitchen door, and Mrs. Staples rose from her seat to answer it. A small, delicate-looking woman, with a sweet, fair face, came in. She was dressed in deep mourning, which had long since lost its freshness, and carried in her arms a large bundle. There were lines of care on her face, and the melancholy look in her large brown eyes deepened perceptibly as Mrs. Staples exclaimed:— "So you've come at last! I thought you'd forgotten me; and I'd set my heart on wearing that dress Thanksgiving day." "O Mrs. Staples," cried little Mrs. Brown, looking ready to burst into tears, "I don't know what you'll say to me. The skirt of the dress is done, but the basque—" "Well, what of the basque?" asked Mrs. Staples sharply, as the dressmaker hesitated. "I—I—spoiled it," faltered Mrs. Brown. "But I thought perhaps you had some more material, and I could make another if you would let me." For a moment Mrs. Staples said nothing. Her indignation was too great for words. When she at length found her tongue, however, she delivered the poor culprit such a lecture as she had never heard before. "I know I deserve scolding, Mrs. Staples," sobbed Mrs. Brown. "But my little Ruth has been sick, and what with nursing her, and losing sleep, and seeing to the housework, I got so confused that I cut the basque all wrong. I never made such a mistake before, and if you can give me only two yards more I can manage to get another basque out in time for you to wear day after to-morrow." "There's no more material to be had," answered Mrs. Staples. "I took the last yard in Dickson's store. No, the dress is ruined. I might as well have thrown my money in the street as spent it on stuff for you to spoil. I ought to have known better than to have trusted you with the silk—common sense ought to have told me you'd ruin it." "I never ruined one before," pleaded Mrs. Brown, still weeping. "And I'll see to it that you never ruin another—in this village, anyway. It's my duty to let people know that you aren't what you profess to be, and know about as much of dressmaking as your baby does." Mrs. Brown said no more, but pulling her veil over her face to conceal the traces of tears on her cheeks, she left the kitchen with a slow and weary step, while Mrs. Staples went back to her seat at the table, too angry to touch the breakfast she had put upon her plate before Mrs. Brown's entrance. The little widow had come to Barton only three weeks before, and, hiring a three-room cottage, had put out a humble sign to the effect that she would do dressmaking on reasonable terms. Mrs. Staples, though well off in this world's goods, was always ready to economize where economy was possible, and as soon as she saw the sign she determined to entrust her new silk, the only one she had bought within five years, to the new-comer. And now it was spoiled, and she must wear her old gray alpaca on Thanksgiving day, when Giles, her only son, was to be at home, and was to bring a stranger with him, too! Could anything more provoking have happened? "Seems to me you were rather hard on her, Hannah," ventured Mr. Staples, as he glanced at his wife's angry face. "Hard on her!" repeated Mrs. Staples. "I didn't say half as much as I ought to have said. What will Mrs. Pettigrew think to see me in that old gray alpaca again? Giles, too!" "Giles won't notice," said Mr. Staples. "He'll be so glad to see you, he won't care what you have on." "But I care. Do you think I want to look like a scarecrow before that lady he is going to bring!" "Couldn't you match the silk in Liscom?" asked Mr. Staples. "There's half a dozen big dry goods stores there, you know." "Liscom! Eight miles off! And all the baking and cleaning to be done, too! And s'pose I had it, who's to make it up! Miss Smart's just run to death." John Staples got up and went out to the barn, giving up the argument in despair. He felt sorry for Mrs. Brown, whose sweet, sad face had touched his heart to pity, and he wished Hannah had not said quite so much to her. But then, of course, it was provoking to have the new dress spoiled. Sitting down on a bench by the barn door, the farmer drew from his pocket a letter, received the day previous, and read it over and over again, as if he would fain impress every word on his memory. It was from his son, and ran as follows:— "DEAR FATHER: I have a great surprise for you and mother. I have found my dear little nurse again. You know that when I recovered from that terrible illness, through which Miss Emily Ray nursed me so tenderly and nobly, stranger to her as I was, I would have made her my wife had she not been promised to another, whom she loved. I have told you how terribly I felt when I learned this fact, and that I have never forgotten her, nor ceased to love her. Well, yesterday I learned from a friend that she is living in Bannock, only forty miles from Barton, and that circumstances have so changed that there is now a chance for me. I have written to her, telling her just what I feel, and that on my way home for Thanksgiving I will stop at Bannock to get her answer. I want both you and dear mother to know her, for you could not fail to love her, and if her answer is what I trust it will be, I shall persuade her to accompany me to Barton to spend Thanksgiving with you. I know that, if she comes, she will receive a warm welcome, for, but for her, I should be in my grave now. Expect me early on Thanksgiving day." While the farmer was reading this letter at the barn, his wife was giving Mrs. Drew, a near neighbor who had dropped in to borrow a cup of molasses, a full history of the ruined dress. "I am so glad you told me," said Mrs. Drew, as she concluded. "For I was calculating on having her make over three or four dresses for the girls. Of course, I shan't trust her with them now." As soon as her visitor had gone, Mrs. Staples began to make preparations for the Thanksgiving day feast. And as she worked, sifting flour, weighing sugar, and stoning raisins, her anger against the little dressmaker cooled; she forgot about the ruined silk, and allowed pleasant thoughts to occupy her mind—thoughts of Giles, the son who was so dear to her, and of the woman he hoped to bring home with him as his promised wife. "Giles' heart is just bound up in that girl," she muttered. "He's never been the same since he met her. I do hope she'll not disappoint him this time. She'd never find a better husband if she looked the world over. And of course I'll give her a warm welcome. He can be sure of that, for I can never forget that I owe her my boy's life. I've got the letter in my trunk now, telling how she nursed him day and night as his own sister might have done." When dinner was over farmer Staples put old Brag to the light wagon, and started off to a neighbor's to buy a leg of mutton for the impending feast. Turning into the Liscom road when he had traveled about a mile, he came suddenly upon little Mrs. Brown, who was toiling along in the snow as if already weary. "Can't I give you a lift?" he asked, drawing old Brag up with a jerk. "O if you only would," she answered. "I am so tired, and have yet a long distance to go." He helped her over the wheel of the wagon to a seat by his side, and talked to her pleasantly until they reached Mr. Jackson's,—where he was to buy the mutton,—of everything that occurred to him; told her of Giles, and how proud he was of him, and rehearsed his many virtues, as only a loving father could. "She's a good little woman," the old man said to himself, as, after helping her out of the wagon, he watched her walk off down the road. "She seemed to be real interested in all I said, and yet she never saw Giles. I wonder where on earth she's bound this cold day." The sun rose clear and bright, the air was just cold enough to be bracing, and the snow was in splendid condition for sleighing on Thanksgiving morning. Hannah Staples was up by daylight, anxious to have her house in perfect order before the arrival of her guests, for, besides Giles and his sweetheart, she expected Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew, distant relatives. She could not help giving a glance into the pantry every now and then, so well satisfied did she feel with her preparations for the feast. Such an array of good things had seldom graced those wide shelves. Pumpkin, apple, and mince pies, flaky doughnuts, cream and jelly tarts, golden cake, iced an inch thick, loaves of golden-brown bread, a big plumb pudding all ready for the pot, three glass moulds filled with ruby cranberry jelly, and in fact, everything calculated to make up a royal Thanksgiving dinner. "Now, I s'pose I must go and put on that hateful gray alpaca," muttered Mrs. Staples, as the clock in the corner of the kitchen struck nine. "Father'll be back with Giles and his sweetheart before I'm ready if I don't hurry; the train comes in at nine." She was about to leave the kitchen when a knock on the door arrested her. Opening it, little Mrs. Brown came in, looking nervous and agitated. "I've brought you another basque, Mrs. Staples," she said. "I sat up all last night to get it done, and now you can wear the silk dress to-day, after all." "Another basque!" repeated Mrs. Staples, in a bewildered manner. "Yes, I matched the silk at Duncan's, in Liscom, and—" "How did you get to Liscom?" interrupted Mrs. Staples. "I walked part of the way and rode the rest," was the answer. "And how did you get back?" "I walked. But indeed, Mrs. Staples, I didn't mind it much. I felt so sorry about the dress that I would have walked as far again rather than have you wear your old dress to-day when you were so anxious to have the new one." Hannah Staples couldn't speak for a moment. Something rose up in her throat and choked her. "I'd rather have done without the dress a hundred years than have had you—" she began, but stopped suddenly, as the sound of a manly step rang on the walk outside. "It's Giles!" she cried. "My own dear boy." "Your son!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, letting her bundle fall to the floor. She sprang toward the door to make her escape, but too late! Giles Staples threw it open as her hand was on the knob. One instant he gazed at her in astonishment; the next, he sprang forward and caught her in his arms. "Emily, dear Emily!" he cried in a voice deep and intense with emotion. "Have I found you again? And in my own mother's house?" Little Mrs. Brown did not answer. Her face was hidden on Giles' breast, and she was sobbing hysterically. The young man bent and whispered something to her. Her answer was only a faint pressure of539the hand he held; but it seemed to satisfy him. "Mother," he said, in a tone of such love and pride as Hannah Staples had never heard before, "This is Emily—once my nurse, now my promised wife." "That Emily Ray?" exclaimed Mrs. Staples, completely at sea. "O Giles, it can't be." "Yes," he said. "This is Emily—Emily Ray Brown. I stopped at Bannock this morning to bring her on with me, and found that she had moved to Barton, and that my letter had been forwarded to her. She has just given me her answer to the question I asked in it, mother, and I have cause to consider this the happiest Thanksgiving day of my whole life." One moment did Hannah Staples hesitate. It took her that long to conquer her pride; for seldom indeed had she craved pardon from any one. But the recollection of the great injustice she had done this woman, to whose unselfishness she owed her son's life, overcame every other feeling at last, and she ran forward and folded the little widow in her arms. "Forgive me," she whispered. "Oh, my dear, my dear, I didn't know."—The Household.