"They are--but they're happy. They're even happy in this!" touching the dress in her lap. "They've been forty years buying it, and four making it up. Never until now could they decide to use it; never until now could they be sure they wouldn't want to--to make it--over." The little dressmaker's voice broke, then went on tremulously: "There are folks like that, you know--that never enjoy a thing for what it is, lest sometime they might want it--different. Miss Priscilla and Miss Amelia never took the good that was goin'; they've always saved it for sometime--later." A Belated Honeymoon The haze of a warm September day hung low over the house, the garden, and the dust-white road. On the side veranda a gray-haired, erect little figure sat knitting. After a time the needles began to move more and more slowly until at last they lay idle in the motionless, withered fingers. "Well, well, Abby, takin' a nap?" demanded a thin-chested, wiry old man coming around the corner of the house and seating himself on the veranda steps. The little old woman gave a guilty start and began to knit vigorously. "Dear me, no, Hezekiah. I was thinkin'." She hesitated a moment, then added, a little feverishly: "--it's ever so much cooler here than up ter the fair grounds now, ain't it, Hezekiah?" The old man threw a sharp look at her face. "Hm-m, yes," he said. "Mebbe 't is." From far down the road came the clang of a bell. As by common consent the old man and his wife got to their feet and hurried to the front of the house where they could best see the trolley-car as it rounded a curve and crossed the road at right angles. "Goes slick, don't it?" murmured the man. There was no answer. The woman's eyes were hungrily devouring the last glimpse of paint and polish. "An' we hain't been on 'em 't all yet, have we, Abby?" he continued. She drew a long breath. "Well, ye see, I--I hain't had time, Hezekiah," she rejoined apologetically. "Humph!" muttered the old man as they turned and walked back to their seats. For a time neither spoke, then Hezekiah Warden cleared his throat determinedly and faced his wife. "Look a' here, Abby," he began, "I'm agoin' ter say somethin' that has been 'most tumblin' off'n the end of my tongue fer mor'n a year. Jennie an' Frank are good an' kind an' they mean well, but they think 'cause our hair's white an' our feet ain't quite so lively as they once was, that we're jest as good as buried already, an' that we don't need anythin' more excitin' than a nap in the sun. Now, Abby, _didn't_ ye want ter go ter that fair with the folks ter-day? Didn't ye?" A swift flush came into the woman's cheek. "Why, Hezekiah, it's ever so much cooler here, an'--" she paused helplessly.