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the plume of Henry of Navarre.

Rebecca was resigned, if not greatly comforted, but she had grace



enough to conceal her feelings, now that she knew economy was at

the root of some of her aunt's decrees in matters of dress; and



she managed to forget the solferino breast, save in sleep, where

a vision of it had a way of appearing to her, dangling from the



ceiling, and dazzling her so with its rich color that she used to

hope the milliner would sell it that she might never be tempted



with it when she passed the shop window.

One day, not long afterward, Miss Miranda borrowed Mr. Perkins's



horse and wagon and took Rebecca with her on a drive to Union, to

see about some sausage meat and head cheese. She intended to call



on Mrs. Cobb, order a load of pine wood from Mr. Strout on the

way, and leave some rags for a rug with old Mrs. Pease, so that



the journey could be made as profitable as possible, consistent

with the loss of time and the wear and tear on her second-best



black dress.

The red-winged black hat was forcibly removed from Rebecca's head



just before starting, and the nightmareturban substituted.

"You might as well begin to wear it first as last," remarked



Miranda, while Jane stood in the side door and sympathized

secretly with Rebecca.



"I will!" said Rebecca, ramming the stiff turban down on her head

with a vindictive grimace, and snapping the elastic under her



long braids; "but it makes me think of what Mr. Robinson said

when the minister told him his mother-in-law would ride in the



same buggy with him at his wife's funeral."

"I can't see how any speech of Mr. Robinson's, made years an'



years ago, can have anything to do with wearin' your turban down

to Union," said Miranda, settling the lap robe over her knees.



"Well, it can; because he said: Have it that way, then, but it'll

spile the hull blamed trip for me!'"



Jane closed the door suddenly, partly because she experienced a

desire to smile (a desire she had not felt for years before



Rebecca came to the brick house to live), and partly because she

had no wish to overhear what her sister would say when she took



in the full significance of Rebecca's anecdote, which was a

favorite one with Mr. Perkins.



It was a cold blustering day with a high wind that promised to

bring an early fall of snow. The trees were stripped bare of



leaves, the ground was hard, and the wagon wheels rattled noisily

over the thank-you-ma'ams.



"I'm glad I wore my Paisley shawl over my cloak," said Miranda.

"Be you warm enough, Rebecca? Tie that white rigolette tighter



round your neck. The wind fairly blows through my bones. I most

wish t we'd waited till a pleasanter day, for this Union road is



all up hill or down, and we shan't get over the ground fast, it's

so rough. Don't forget, when you go into Scott's, to say I want



all the trimmin's when they send me the pork, for mebbe I can try

out a little mite o' lard. The last load o' pine's gone turrible



quick; I must see if "Bijah Flagg can't get us some cut-rounds at

the mills, when he hauls for Squire Bean next time. Keep your



mind on your drivin', Rebecca, and don't look at the trees and

the sky so much. It's the same sky and same trees that have been



here right along. Go awful slow down this hill and walk the hoss

over Cook's Brook bridge, for I always suspicion it's goin' to



break down under me, an' I shouldn't want to be dropped into that

fast runnin' water this cold day. It'll be froze stiff by this



time next week. Hadn't you better get out and lead"--

The rest of the sentence was very possibly not vital, but at any



rate it was never completed, for in the middle of the bridge a

fierce gale of wind took Miss Miranda's Paisley shawl and blew it



over her head. The long heavy ends whirled in opposite directions

and wrapped themselves tightly about her wavering bonnet. Rebecca



had the whip and the reins, and in trying to rescue her

struggling aunt could not steady her own hat, which was suddenly



torn from her head and tossed against the bridge rail, where it

trembled and flapped for an instant.



"My hat! Oh! Aunt Miranda, my hateful hat!" cried Rebecca, never

remembering at the instant how often she had prayed that the



"fretful porcupine" might some time vanish in this violent

manner, since it refused to die a natural death.



She had already stopped the horse, so, giving her aunt's shawl

one last desperatetwitch, she slipped out between the wagon



wheels, and darted in the direction of the hated object, the loss

of which had dignified it with a temporary value and importance.



The stiff brown turban rose in the air, then dropped and flew




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