"Mr. Montfort brought them towels back from Germany, three years ago, because he thought they would please his aunt, and they did, dear lady. Hand spun and wove they are, she said; and there's only one place where they make this weave and this pattern. See, Miss Margaret! 'Tis roses, coming out of a little loaf of bread like; and there was a story about it, some saint, but I don't rightly remember what. There! I have tried to remember that story, ever since Mis' Cheriton went, but it seems I can't." "Oh, oh, it must be Saint Elizabeth of Hungary!" cried Margaret, bending in delight over the smooth silvery stuff. "Why, how perfectly enchanting!" "Yes, miss, that's it!" cried Elizabeth, beaming with pleasure. "Saint Elizabeth it was; and maybe you'll know the story, Miss Margaret. I never like to ask Mr. Montfort, of course, but I should love dearly to hear it." Margaret asked nothing better. She told the lovely story as well as she knew how, and before she had finished, Elizabeth's eyes as well as her own were full of tears. One of Elizabeth's tears even fell on the towel, and she cried out in horror, and wiped it away as if it had been a poison-spot, and laid the sacred damask back in its place. Margaret felt the moment given to her. "Elizabeth," she said, "I want to ask you something. I want to ask if you will help me a little. Will you try?" Elizabeth, surprised and pleased, vowed she would do all she could for Miss Margaret, in any way in her power. "You can do a great deal!" said Margaret. "I--I am very young, Elizabeth, and--and you and Frances have been here a long time, and of course you know all about the work of the house, and I know nothing at all. And yet--and yet, I ought to be helping, it seems to me, and ought to be taking my place, and my share in the work. Do you see what I mean, Elizabeth? You and Frances could help me, oh, so much, if you would; and perhaps some day I might be able to help you too,--I don't know just how, yet, but it might come."