To Sherry it seemed like a wrong to the dead woman as she pinned and unpinned and ripped and basted and tried on, and when it came to the lace, which Amy said must be cut in two or three places to produce the desired effect, she ventured to say: “Can’t we arrange it in some other way? It seems a pity to cut it, and I keep thinking of the lady who used to wear it.” Amy looked at her, wondering what possible interest she could have in the lady who used to wear it. “Oh, she was dust and ashes long ago. She don’t mind,” she said, “and as the dress is now mine I want it as I like. So cut the lace here and here.” Sherry hesitated a moment, and then her scissors slashed through the expensive material, which had cost a fabulous sum and been the wonder and admiration of the neighborhood. It was a hard day for Sherry, working on the old dresses and listening to the talk in which she could take no part. She was for the time being only a seamstress, whose duty was to be silent. The young ladies were well-bred and kind-hearted, and would not willingly injure the feelings of any one, but reared as they had been they felt there was an immeasurable distance between themselves and the girl who sat all day long in their midst, unnoticed except when wanted for advice or for some change in the dresses. She was very pretty, they thought, and very ladylike, and certainly understood her business. “You must have worked in a dressmaking establishment, you are so deft with your needle and have such good taste,” one of them said to her, and she replied: “I have made my own dresses, with my sister’s help.” Amy, who had felt a good deal puzzled by Sherry, now began to question her. “You have a sister?” “Yes.” “And a mother?” “Yes.” “Is your father living?” “No.” “And your home is in the country?” “Yes.” “Where, if I may ask?” If Mrs. Groves could have seen Sherry then, she would have thought her head and chin higher than ever in the air. She was resenting being catechised so closely, but answered the last question promptly: “In Buford, Massachusetts.” “Buford?” Amy repeated. “Why, the Saltuses’ summer home is in Buford. Did you ever see them, Mr. Craig Saltus and his sister? You must have heard of them.” “Yes, I have heard of them.” “Is their place a very fine one?” “Yes, very fine.” “Inside as well as out? Perhaps, though, you were never inside. Were you?” “Yes.” “And have met Miss Saltus?” “Yes.” “I hear that she is very familiar with the country people. Invites them and accepts their invitations.” As this was not a direct question Sherry did not feel called upon to answer. Her eyes were blazing with scorn at the questioning, which might have gone on if Ruth Doane had not called to her cousin and said: “For Heaven’s sake, Amy, don’t spend any more time talking of the Saltuses when we have so much to do; and I want to know if I can have this lovely scarf. See how it becomes me.”