She found the long-accustomed details of chamber work a comfort and solace, and, as she finally gazed about the tidy room at her completed work, she felt far more contented with her lot than she had felt before beginning. "I guess I'll go help Phoebe," she thought. "The girl is that slow!" As she came from her room she found Copernicus leaning over the table, one hand buried in his hair and the other wielding a pencil. He was absorbed in arithmetical calculations. She did not disturb him, but turned and entered Phoebe's room without the formality of knocking. As she opened the door, there was a sharp clatter, as of a door or lid slamming. "Who's there?" cried Phoebe, sharply. She was seated on the floor in front of her trunk, and she looked up at her sister with a flushed and startled face. "Oh, it's you!" she said, guiltily. Rebecca glanced at the bed. It had not been touched. "Well, I declare!" Rebecca exclaimed. "Ain't you ever agoin' to fix up your room, Phoebe Wise?" "Oh, in a minute, Rebecca. I was just agoin' over my trunk a minute." She leaned back against the foot of the bed, and folding her hands gazed pensively into vacancy, while Rebecca stared at her in astonishment. "Do you know," Phoebe went on, "I've ben thinkin' it's awful mean not to give you a chance to go back to 1876, Rebecca. Joe Chandler's a mighty fine man!" Rebecca gave vent to an unintelligible murmur and turned to Phoebe's bed. She grasped the mattress and gave it a vicious shake as she turned it over. She was probably only transferring to this inoffensive article a process which she would gladly have applied elsewhere. There was a long silence while Rebecca resentfully drew the sheets into proper position, smoothed them with swift pats and caressings, and tucked them neatly under at head and sides. Then came a soft, apologetic voice. "Rebecca!" The spinster made no reply but applied herself to a mathematically accurate adjustment of the top edge of the upper sheet. "Rebecca!" The second call was a little louder than the first, and there was a queer half-sobbing, half-laughing catch in the speaker's voice that commanded attention. Rebecca looked up. Phoebe was still sitting on the floor beside her trunk, but the trunk was open now and the young woman's rosy face was peering with a pathetic smile over a--what!--could it be! Rebecca leaned forward in amazement. Yes, it was! In Phoebe's outstretched hands was the dearest possible little baby's undergarment--all of cambric, with narrow ribbons at the neck. For a few seconds the two sisters looked at each other over this unexpected barrier. Then Phoebe's lips quivered into a pathetic curve and she buried her face in the little garment, laughing and crying at once. Rebecca dropped helplessly into a chair. "Phoebe Martin Wise!" she exclaimed. "Do you mean--hev you brought----?"