There are glorious possibilities in a
workbasket. Once she had found wool there, not carded, but a hank of
it, soft, white and most delicate to touch. To handle it had given her
the queerest sensation. She had shut her eyes, and it had seemed to
weave itself into the daintiest garments--very small, you understand,
and with sleeves no longer than a middle finger. But it was a silly
imagining, for not many days afterward, looking down from the canvas,
she had seen the old lady, with her clicking ivory needles, knit the
wool into an ugly pair of bed socks.
Quite a while she played in the basket that night. She liked the little
pearl buttons in the pill box, and the safety pins were nice too. Kind
and trustworthy pins they were to hide their points beneath smooth
round shields. She felt it would be good to take some of them back in
one of her empty hands and hide them in that little crevice of rock
under the juniper tree.
It was the banging of a front door opposite and the sound of running
footsteps that moved her to the window. She drew back the curtain and
peeped out across the way.
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