As Rose was saying this she gathered up the articles and put them back in the box once more. “I suppose you can find a use for this purple silk. Perhaps when I’m old and wear a cap it will come useful.” For answer Miss Silence laughed and nodded, “There will be some place where it will come in yet.” “Rose,” said Mrs. Blossom, “I think it is time the chickens were fed.” This was something Rose had begged to do. They were a tamer flock than Mrs. Hagood’s, petted as was every living thing about the Blossoms, and it was an unfailing pleasure to have them run to meet her, to feed them out of her hand, and to smooth their white feathers as they crowded around. As she took the measure of yellow corn from the back of the stove where it had been warming, the big Maltese cat rose and purred beside her. “No, Dandy,” and she gave him a pat, “you can’t go with me this time, the chickens don’t like you; you jump and make them flutter.” As she spoke she looked for something to put around her and her eye fell on the cape which lay this time on the top of the box. “I have just thought what I can use it for,” and she laughed merrily. “I can wear it out to the chicken house; the chickens, I know, will enjoy pecking at the bugles. That would certainly be making use of it.” She paused with her hand on the door. “Will I have to write to Great-Aunt Sarah and thank her?” “Don’t you think that you ought to?” Mrs. Blossom questioned in turn. “I am not sure whether I do or not. But one thing is certain—if I do write to her you will all have to help me, for I should never know what to say.” “I know what I should like to say to her.” Silence Blossom’s tone was scornful, though she waited till Rose was out of hearing before she spoke. “I would like to tell her that such a lot of good-for-nothing old stuff I never saw sent away. I have heard stories of the boxes sent to some of the home missionaries out West, and I think this must be like them. Any woman of sense might have known that those things were not suitable for a girl of Rose’s age.” “At least the material was good,” urged her mother. “You mean it had been, but it was past that point. It’s very evident that Great-Aunt Sarah buys good clothes for herself. Something new for Rose for a dress would have done her more good than all that cast-off finery.” “To my mind the letter was worse than the box,” declared Mrs. Patience. “I never heard anything more heartless and cold-blooded. One would have thought the mere facts would have aroused a sympathy for Rose.” “She is coming in,” cautioned Miss Silence, “and we would not say anything before her. But this much is certain, that I know all I want to of Mrs. Sarah Hartly.” CHAPTER XXII QUIET DAYS