The needles of good women preach as they labor. He knew the history of these. For forty years they had labored, those bits of steel in the velvet fingers. Husband, children, slaves, all had felt upon their feet the soft summings of their calculations. One whole company of soldiers, the gallant company her husband had led into Confederate service, had threaded the Wilderness in her socks, and died nearly all at Malvern Hill. Down deep under the soil of the old Mother State they planted her work from sight, and the storms of winter removed its imprints where, through worn and wasted leather, it had touched virgin soil as the bleeding survivors came limping home. Forty years had stilled the thought on which it was based. It was strong and resolute still. Some day the needles would rust out of sight, the hands be folded in rest and the thought would be gone. Edward glanced from the woman to the girl. "Not so," he said, softly; "the thought will live. Other hands trained under its sweet ministry will take up the broken threads; the needles will flash again. Woman's work is never done, and never will be while love and faith and courage have lodgment upon earth. "Did you speak, Mr. Morgan?" "Possibly. I have fallen into the habit of thinking aloud. And I was thinking of you; it must have been a great privilege to call you mother, Mrs. Montjoy." She smiled a little. "I am glad you think so." "I have never called any by that name," he said, slowly, looking away. "I never knew a mother." "That will excuse a great many things in a man's life," she said, in sympathy. "You have no remembrance, then?" "None. She died when I was an infant, I suppose, and I grew up, principally, in schools." "And your father?" "He also--died." He was reckless for the moment. "Sometimes I think I will ask you to let me call you--mother. It is late to begin, but think of a man's living and dying without once speaking the name to a woman." "Call me that if you will. You are certainly all that a son could be to me." "Mother," he said, reflectively, "mother," and then looking toward Mary he saw that, though reading, her face was crimson; "that gives me a sister, does it not?" he added, to relieve the situation. She glanced toward him, smiling. "As you will, brother Edward--how natural." "I like the mother better," he said, after a pause. "I have observed that brothers do not wear well. I should hate to see the day when it would not be a pleasure to be with you, Miss Montjoy." He could not control nor define his mood. "Then," she said, with eyes upon the book, "let it not be brother. I would be sorry to see you drift away--we are all your friends." "Friends!" He repeated the word contemplatively. "That is another word I am not fond of. I have seen so many friends--not my own, but friends of others! Friends steal your good name, your opportunities, your happiness, your time and your salvation. Oh, friendship!"