Sara turned suddenly to find her standing by the table, looking very queer indeed. She had shut her eyes, and was twisting her face in strange, convulsive contortions, her hands hanging stiffly clenched at her sides. She looked as if she was trying to lift some enormous weight.
"What is the matter, Becky? " Sara cried. "What are you doing?"
Becky opened her eyes with a start.
"I was a-'pretendin',' miss," she answered a little sheepishly; "I was tryin' to see it like you do. I almost did," with a hopeful grin. "But it takes a lot o' stren'th."
"Perhaps it does if you are not used to it," said Sara, with friendly sympathy; "but you don't know how easy it is when you 've done it often. I would n't try so hard just at first. It will come to you after a while. I 'll just tell you what things are. Look at these."
She held an old summer hat in her hand which she had fished out of the bottom of the trunk. There was a wreath of flowers on it. She pulled the wreath off.
"These are garlands for the feast," she said grandly.
"They fill all the air with perfume. There 's a mug on the wash-stand, Becky. Oh—and bring the soap-dish for a centrepiece."
Becky handed them to her reverently.
"What are they now, miss?" she inquired. "You 'd think they was made of crockery,—but I know they ain't."
"This is a carven flagon," said Sara, arranging tendrils
