Day after day, Mrs.White, from her point of observation at her window, watched the lithe young figure coming down the road, bearing her sheaves of boughs and vines, sometimes on her shoulder, as lightly and gracefully as a peasant girl of Italy might bear her poised basket of grapes.

Gradually a deep wonder took possession of the lonely old woman's soul.
"Whatever can she do with all that green stuff ?" she thought.

"She's carried in enough to trim the 'Piscopal church twice over." At last she shared her perplexity with Marty.
"Marty," said she one day, "have you ever seen Mrs.Philbrick come into the house without somethin' green in her hands?
What do you suppose she's goin' to do with it all ?" "Lord knows," answered Marty.

"I've been a speckkerlatin' about that very thing myself.

They can't be a brewin' beer this time o' year; but I see her yesterday with her hands full o' pyroly." "I wish you would make an errand in there, Marty," said Mrs.White, "and see if you can any way find out what it's all for.