Her knock on the green-paneled door was answered by Miss Silence Blossom, one of the two whom Ben Pancost had described as “not young, or really old,” but with the brightness of youth still lingering in her eyes and her smile. The room into which she led Posey was large and sunny with windows facing the south. In one corner was an open sewing machine from which she had evidently just risen. In another corner stood a square table covered with boxes of flowers and ribbons beside which trimming a bonnet sat Mrs. Patience Bird, a younger sister of Miss Silence, her sweet, gentle face touched by a shade of sadness, reflected in the mourning dress she still wore for the young husband whose picture was in the little pin at her throat. Behind the low chair in which she sat was a tall case with long glass doors, filled with ribbons, flowers, and hats, all in orderly array, for though this was the work-room of busy workers there was no trace of litter or confusion. Mrs. Blossom, the mother, with a strong but kindly face, was watering a stand of house plants. She, too, was a widow, but of more than half a lifetime. The years when she had gathered her fatherless children around her and, still a young woman, taken up a life alone and bravely for herself and them had left their lines of energy, decision, and firmness. And, last of the family group, in a large armchair by one of the sunny windows with some white knitting in her hands, sat an old lady, whose peaceful face not less than her drab dress, close white cap, and snowy, folded kerchief, told that she was of the Quaker faith. Posey took the chair offered her, suddenly embarrassed and shy under the gaze of so many questioning eyes, and at last stammered abruptly, “Ben said you would know where the old lady lived.” “Ben who; and what old lady?” demanded Miss Silence, who in spite of her name was the talker of the family. “Why, the nice old lady who wants a girl to live with her. And you know Ben; he’s the boy who drives the red tin peddler’s cart.” “I know who she means,” spoke Mrs. Patience. “It is the boy who came here last summer that Aunt Maria Ames took such a fancy to, and asked him if he hadn’t a sister to live with her. I think,” to her mother, “you and Grandmother were away that day. Don’t you remember, Silence, you mended his coat for him?” By this time Posey had found her tongue. “Yes,” she hastened to add, “Ben said you did. He said he knew you were the best kind of Christians.” Mrs. Blossom smiled. “I hope Ben was right, though that seems to have been a case of judging faith by works.” “Well, Ben Pancost knows,” asserted Posey stoutly. “He certainly impressed me as a very good boy,” said Miss Silence, “truthful, frank, and manly. And so you wanted to come and live with Mrs. Ames?” “Yes, ma’am, Ben was almost sure she would let me.” “That is too bad, for she has gone to Chicago to spend the winter with her daughter.”