Then, remembering a pile of clothes that must be mended before dark, she got up and began to hunt for her thimble and thread.
"That tawmentin' boy must have lost 'em," she exclaimed, after a vain search through her work-basket.

The clothes were lying on the bed where she had put them.

As she gathered them in her arms the thimble rolled out, and a spool of thread with a needle sticking in it fell to the floor.
[Illustration: George came out and locked the door] She shook out Ivy's little blue dress, and began turning it around to find the seam that was ripped.

It was drawn together with queer straggling stitches that only the most awkward of fingers could have made.

The white buttons on Bud's shirt-waist had been sewed on with black thread, and a spot of blood told where somebody's thumb had felt the sharp thrust of a needle.