Madam Crewe drew down her lips in what Mrs. Slawson had grown to call her "Foxy gran’ma" expression. She turned again to Katherine. "I’ll give you a fichu to wear with the mull. A French thing, handworked, trimmed with Mechlin, rather good Mechlin, as it happens. I never wore it. ’Twas too large. Swallowed me up. But the long ends won’t trail on _you_. There, there! Don’t thank me. I hate sentimentality. And I’ve almost been sentimental myself—after sixty-eight years. I know you’re pleased. I understand my sex. We’re sirens, all of us, at heart—when we have any heart. I’ve not the slightest doubt, now, but if Slawson put on a pair of silk stockings and a lace petticoat, she’d feel as coquettish as any of us. No matter how plain we are, we all have the _instincts_ of beautiful women. We’re made that way.... Now close down the lid. See you turn the key all the way ’round. I recollect the lock is tricky. Slawson, help Miss Katherine carry the chest back where it came from. Put it away where you found it, and be sure to fasten the trunk-room door, and bolt it securely. And, Slawson, you needn’t come back here, when you’ve done. Just take your acrow bobbinet, and march home to your husband and children, where you belong. I’m tired." Something "Slawson" could not have analyzed kept her silent after she and Miss Crewe left the room. Katherine was singularly mute. Martha had waved the girl aside, and, grappling with the chest single-handed, triumphantly had carried it off, the little madam watching the performance covertly, with eyes glistening appreciation. Her feat successfully accomplished, Martha went her way, clasping her precious bundle. She was home before she was aware. Sam met her at the door, his face revealing, to her who knew it, a secret delight. "I’m to go to the city next week, mother. So, pack your bag and get ready for your _wedding-tour_," he greeted her with sober fun. "Have you told Ma and the childern?" "No. I thought you’d better." "Good. No hurry. Time enough later. I hope Ma won’t kick. It’ll mean some work for her, while I’m gone—_if she does it_, but nothing she can’t reel off easy enough, if her spirit is willin’. I got a present, Sam. From the ol’ lady." "Yes, I know. The cow." "No, I mean somethin’ else. The ol’ lady give me a surprise. She give me a front seat to see her do a new turn, an’ she passed out soovenirs to the audience, besides. I got mine here." "What is it?" "What’ll take me with you down home. I mean, New York." "Money?" "As good as. It’ll be money, when I’m done with it. Only, from now on, for some days to come, I’m goin’ to be _Little Martha the Lace Mender_, or, _The Postponed Bride_, an’ a buzz-saw will be safe for anybody to monkey with by comparising." It was a proud day for Martha when, her stint completed, she was able to carry the curtains, exquisitely cleansed and mended, to Miss Claire.