And as the request was seconded by many voices, Isabel told her simple tale. [1]“There is no romance about it, Miss Emily; but you remember those pretty habit shirts you admired so much last fall—and _you_ have seen me wear them, Mrs. Moore. They were made by a woman—a _lady_ whom I first saw years ago, when I passed my vacations at Milton, a little town not far from Harrisburg. My Aunt Gray was very domestic, and thought it no disgrace to the wife of a judge, and one of the most prominent men in the state, to see after her own household. “There was a piece of linen to be made up one vacation; and I remember going into my aunt’s room and finding her surrounded by ‘sleeves and gussets and bands’—cutting out and arranging them with the most exemplary patience. ‘Pray, aunt, why do you bother yourself with such things,’ I said, for I was full of boarding-school notions on the dignity of _idleness_. ‘Why don’t you leave it for a seamstress.’ “‘If you will go with me this afternoon to see my seamstress, you will find out. I should like you to see her.’ And that afternoon our walk ended at a plain brown frame house, with nothing to relieve its unsightliness but a luxuriant morning-glory vine, which covered one of the lower windows. “‘How is Mrs. Hall to-day?’ aunt said to a dirty little fellow who was making sand pies on the front step. “‘She’s in there,’ was all the answer we received, as he pointed toward a door on the right of the little hall. “‘Come in,’ said a faint and very gentle voice; and, at first, I could hardly see who had spoken, the room was so shaded by the leafy curtain which had interlaced its fragile stems over the front window. There was a neat rag carpet on the floor; a few plain chairs, a table, and a bureau, ranged round the room; but drawn near the window, so that the light fell directly upon it, was a bed, covered by a well-worn counterpane, though, like everything else, it was very neat and clean—and here, supported in a sitting posture by pillows, was my aunt’s seamstress. I do not think she had been naturally beautiful—but her features, wasted by long illness, were very delicate, and her eyes were large, and with the brilliancy you sometimes see in consumptives, yet a look of inexpressible sadness. She was very pale in that soft emerald light made by the foliage, and this was relieved by a faint hectic that, if possible, increased the pallor. She smiled as she saw my aunt, and welcomed us both very gratefully. As she held out her long thin hand, you could see every blue vein distinctly. I noticed that she wore a thimble, and around her, on the bed, were scattered bits of linen and sewing implements. You cannot tell how strange it seemed to see her take up a wristband and bend over it, setting stitch after stitch with the regularity of an automaton, while she talked with us. She seemed already dying, and this industry was almost painful to witness.