"Black silk 's black silk, whoever 's worn it; nobody could tell one from another, and I might have the gray one dyed for a petticoat; no, I 'll give that to Molly's cousin, Sarah Beman; she never has anything pretty, poor soul! John 'u'd never see it on her, or he would n't know it if he did; she 'd make it up with red, most likely."
And so good Susan Bassett went on through the simple wardrobe, apportioning it in her own mind as seemed best, and quietly saying to herself at last:—
"I guess I 'd better not say anything to John about it; he 'll know I 've disposed of 'em somehow, and I reckon he 'd rather not know where they went. It 's only natural he should have some feeling about the things; 'taint so very long yet."
As she took out the last article from the drawer, she saw far back in the right-hand corner a small folded paper. She took it out, opened it, and seeing that it was poetry, was just about to threw it on the floor (Susan never read poetry); but suddenly recollecting the circumstances under which this drawer had been closed, she felt a curiosity to see what the verses were which had been put away so carefully with Molly's best clothes.
If "The Wife's Reverie" had been written in Sanscrit, it would have been but little more removed from Susan's comprehension. She read it slowly with a look of increasing contempt on her face.
