She came home from the Hollys walking on air. Over the brook—my goodness, what wobbly stepping stones! Suppose she sat down in the water, wouldn’t those water-spiders be surprised, and the small fish slipping about like shadows? So cool, so clear, for two pins she’d go in paddling. That bright, bright moss at the side with the crystal runlets of water trickling over it, reminded her of the green velvet dress with the crystal beading that Willie had liked, ever so long ago.
Mushrooms! Growing in long white drifts on the short green grass of the pasture. She began to fill her basket, empty now except for its permanent contents of a key that had long ago lost its door, with a bit of dingy red ribbon tied to it; a paper screw of seeds (seeds of what? She hadn’t the least idea); an elderly list of blurred pencilling, headed “Must do”; and a few twists of grubby string. Transient knitting, Christmas cookies, eggs, mail, fruit, and flowers covered them from time to time, but these old residents remained unmoved.
Most of the mushrooms were too old, after all, black and wormy. She got enough big brown-lined umbrellas for a nice little dish, but she couldn’t find any of the silky white ones with the pink linings like the basketful Margaret and the girls brought her last week.
Then, by the edge of the wood, she saw the most beautiful one, all by itself, and further on, another. More beautiful than any of Margaret’s, all silvery, inside and out. She found five before she was through. They gleamed against the shadows of the wood, beautiful, lonely, and white—angels of death.
And then she thought, why not stop and ask Margaret to lunch? Because she loved mushrooms, and here they were, and there was Cobina to cook them.
“Really, Priscilla, she’s a treasure!”
“Willie says so, too,” said Aunt Priscilla, beaming. “No, the mushrooms are all for you—they cook down so, don’t they? No, really, I never want anything else when I have corn-fritters, and Cobina says she wouldn’t be paid to eat them. Toads, she calls them—did you ever? Short for toadstools, I guess. Now take them all or I’ll feel bad, I gathered them especially for you. Co‑o‑bina! Oh, Cobina, you might just let us have a few more of the corn-fritters—do you think she looks all right? She’s so black it’s sort of hard to tell, isn’t it?”
“She’s better than Lizzie’s wonderful fancy cook,” said Mamma, mopping up the mushroom gravy on her biscuit. “What’s the matter with Lizzie, anyway, Priscilla? She’s acting very queer lately—just half a cup—oh, you bad girl, I said half!”
“Don’t tell, but Willie thinks she’s going crazy!” Aunt Priscilla’s eyes looked like pale blue glass marbles ready to pop out of her head. “He went over last Tuesday—was it Tuesday? What day was it the old peddler woman came? Anyway, he wanted Sam to go down state after reedbirds with him, and he said you could hear Lizzie screaming clear out on the road; and, when he got up to the house, he heard Sam sort of yell, ‘You’d better be careful, my lady, or I’ll lock you up, that’s what I’ll do!’ It made Willie feel so queer he never stopped at all—here, let me take away your plate, and I’ll get some chocolate cake.” She opened the lower doors of her husband’s desk, where she kept the cake box, the vanilla bottle, and the broken plates with the hummingbirds and morning-glories that she planned to mend some day.
“Priscilla—excuse me—it comes so quickly, this damp, warm weather—but I don’t believe we’d better eat that, I’m afraid it’s molded just a little.”
“Why, so it has!” She looked at the beautiful cake, so rich and black, but with spots of mold, furry grey on the icing. “Do you think it would hurt? Well, I suppose it’s better to be safe than sorry.” Sadly she put the cake back in the box.
“Jo Allen has marked four dozen tea napkins for Maggie.”
“Has she?” She brightened up again, sprinkled sugar thickly on a piece of bread and butter, and settled to enjoyment. “You know I was thinking this morning of a green velvet dress I had the year I was married—I believe if it was steamed it would make over into a right pretty sacque for Maggie. And Willie and I want to give her her great-grandmother’s silver teaspoons. Has Lizzie given her anything yet?”
Beautiful, lonely, and white, the Angel of Death. Whiter than fire, whiter than snow, the great wings curve above Mamma, their shadow covers her. The flies buzz, the parrot says “Oh dear!” and scratches its head, Aunt Priscilla scratches her head, too, and takes a half moon bite of bread and sugar.
Mamma strolled home—the shortcut through the cornfield. The river had never been so blue. Over the stile and up through the garden—two or three more days and the asters would be lovely—oh, such a fine plant broken! That was Victor’s new puppy Bundle, bad little thing.
She stopped to gather a few nasturtiums, thinking, “I believe I could get a whole dress for Maggie out of Priscilla’s green velvet if I had it open over a satin underskirt.” Poor Priscilla! Such a goose, but so kind. She wouldn’t harm a fly.
She paused to eat a peach, looking thoughtful and thinking of nothing. Then across the lawn and into the house. And
