Once there were two old ladies who lived alone, in an old house with blue china and straight-backed chairs. And the key-note of that house (as every house has its key-note) was peace. I, who lived in a city, went there, now and then, to rest for a brief while in its peace and grow strong. For it was in the country, and all about it was the smell of orchards.
One of the beautiful old ladies was blind. The other was so frail that it seemed a marvel how she kept going. Yet they never rested,—in the fashion which I should have called rest,—but were always as sentinels on duty. I was sluggard enough to sigh, occasionally, for a reclining chair or a couch. There was no such thing in the house. There never had been. It was sufficient for them that their ancestors had had nothing of the kind. For this was the doctrine of their simple lives—to be no more than (and as much as possible what) their mother and their father had been; to hold all good which they had held good, and to call evil what they had called evil; then to lie beside them at the end.
There was a curious correlation between their several infirmities. They believed that God designed it so. The frail one was eyes, the blind one was strength—to both.
Now, you are not to suppose that they were moody and melancholy and sour. On the contrary, they loved laughter, and constantly laughed at the queer straits into which their limitations so often brought them; at the equally queer contrivances by which they were overcome. They laughed—yes—at themselves—gently—as they did all things.
And they believed every one of those curious things which no one believes nowadays—which are only gibed at. (And I am not sure that they who gibe are more wise than they who believe—are you?) There were certain signs of the zodiac, movements of the constellations, phases of the moon, and meteorological conditions for the doing of everything—from the medication of mortal illness to the planting of beets in their little garden. And they knew, and scrupulously propitiated, every influence for good or evil luck.
Nevertheless they were curiously modern in thought and attitude—fresh—young—interested.
They liked my glittering automobile with its snorting terrors, and recalled Mother Shipton’s prophecy concerning it. But they would not ride in it. Not because they did not trust it and me, but because they instinctively knew that they would create an unpicturesque anachronism. They understood that they belonged to the world of 1850.
Yet they adored children—and the more modern their dress and manners the more they loved them. When the youngsters came (they were always being invited—inveigled, in fact), the shutters were flung wide as if the sisters said: “Yes, the shadows are for us. But the sunshine is for you!”
Still nothing in that house was of a childish sort—except those children’s clothes packed away in the garret. It was here that they would spend their holidays. Sitting on the floor they would open the chests which were before trunks, and the fragile one would put the tiny garments into the hands of the blind one—piece after piece—and chatter softly:
“Hiliary’s, you know.”
“Oh, yes! The one with the blue-fringed ruffles,” the blind one would answer.
“Mildred’s little patchwork quilt.”
“She was three, then.”
“Yes. She sat in the little rocker to sew.”
“Yes—it had blue pinks painted on the back.”
“She used to say that she couldn’t sew except in the little rocker.”
They would both laugh at that.
“And she would rock furiously!”
“Yes, and sew that way! Feel these savage stitches!”
“And sing!”
“Yes.”
The frail one would sing, then, in a small, quavering voice; and if she had not to cry too much, the blind one would join in the song—especially in the refrain—with an alto that went wrong more often than right—as they say it did when she sang in the choir. For both of them used to sing in the choir. And they still loved music. Sometimes, sitting behind their thick, black veils, in the corner of the faded church no one ever took from them, they would hear the old organist play (they let him do so whenever the young lady had a headache), “Fading, Still Fading.” Then they would reach out and hold each other by the hand. For that had been a famous duet of theirs. In fact, they still yearned to sing whenever they heard it. But that would not do. Only the choir sang now.
Did I tell you that the husband of the frail one had died in 1860, and that they had both worn mourning for him ever since? It was he who had used, sometimes, to invent a third part to their duet—a tremendous bass.
The other precious thing in this garret was a trousseau. Once I saw a bonnet of white silk—made coal-scuttle fashion—shirred (I think that is the name)—and with a simple red rose inside where it nestled against thick brown hair and cheeks with pink spots in them—at least so they are all pictured in the old daguerreotype taken at Philadelphia.
And there was a wondrous silk dress of a wide stripe—white, with just a dash of pink in the moiré. It could be worn to-day. It is not cut at all. But it is much more soft and gentle—this fabric woven only by worms and human hands—than those woven on power-looms. Then there was a pair of satin slippers with strings to cross over the ankles, and a marvellous petticoat—all feather-stitching! A veil, too, turned quite yellow now, which had always wrapped some sprays of flowers, the stems of which only remained. But one could see that they had been orange blossoms—mock-orange blossoms. They grew in the front yard of the two old ladies—when they were not old ladies at all. They grow there still. Mock-orange blossoms.
There was, too, a pair of stockings, which, I was often told, had come straight from London. Think of that! They had pink clocks at the sides ending in rosebuds. After that the trousseau was of intimate things I may not mention—and which I never saw—perhaps could not name—for when these were likely to be uncovered the lid of the chest was softly, deprecatingly closed in my face. But I know that they were infinitely adorned.
Their conversation has been going on all the while they have sat there on the floor. Listen:
“I wore this on my wedding journey. Brides did that then.”
“A bride wished it known that she was a bride in those days, didn’t she?”
“Yes, indeed. She was proud of it. Not ashamed.”
“It was your first railroad journey?”
“Yes. There was only one railroad in this part of the country then. And it was a long time before the people got reconciled to travelling so fast. Each one expected never to get back alive. But we went all the way to Philadelphia on it. And it took only three days. There was lots of smoke from the engine. Even Hiliary preferred the stage. But I—Here a small cinder burnt a hole.”
The blind one would feel it.
“You looked very pretty then, sis. I saw you—go.”
Sis would not reply. There was not a spark of vanity in her. But she was very pretty at that moment. And there were the Philadelphia daguerreotypes to prove that she was pretty in 1857.
“We were married only three years.”
We! It meant the three of them.
It was this the blind one thought of most. Remember that when we finally get to the story.
“Yes, Hiliary died in 1860.”
And then the memory of the frail one would pass the gulf of all those years and she would touch the blind one with a caress.
“And when we got home again you had lost your sight!”
“Yes.”
“But, sis, it wasn’t because you were so lonely and cried so much! It couldn’t have been that!”
It was the question she had begged a thousand times. And the answer she was to have she had had as often:
“No.”
“For crying, no matter how much, will never hurt the sight?”
“No.”
“I don’t think Doctor Massey ever understood your case.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, he let it go until it was too—There are better doctors now. They would know?”
“Perhaps.”
“But it’s too late, isn’t it?”
The answer, too, she had always had to this, while she had always hoped, and always would, for a different one:
“Yes—it’s too late. It was to be so.”
“But you were lonely, dear sis? I wouldn’t like to think that you were not.”
“Oh, yes!”
“The neighbors said that the shutters weren’t opened all the while we were away.”
“What was the use?”
“And they heard you cry.”
“Well, of course! We had never been separated before.”
“And I was so happy that I didn’t even think that you might be unhappy. But you’ve forgiven me for that.”
“I was happy, too—for your happiness, sis, dear.”
“Then why did you cry so? That I never will understand.”
Nay, that the frail one would never understand until she should reach that Heaven where all the secrets of the earth are revealed. For it was here alone that the blind one had never been quite frank. Always she had answered, always she would answer, until they faced each other in that Heaven:
“People cry for joy as well as for sorrow, sis, dear.”
“But not so hard that they lose their eye-sight.”
“When one is worried the weakest part goes first. And the doctor said it was that way with me. My eyes were weak.” And then the fatalistic refrain: “It had to be.”
“But, sis, dear, why did you worry?”
“About you.”
I think she had told this gentle lie more than a thousand times. But I am sure that the recording angel has not got it down against her once.
“But I was happy.”
“Yes—you—were—happy—dear—dear sis.”
“And so you never saw me after that—nor Hiliary, nor the babies—”
“But, sis, dear, I could touch you all, and hear your voices, and there was so much to remember. You know that I was happier after my blindness than before.”
“Yes, I know. And I cannot understand that.”
That, too, she would know only in that One Place where there are no secrets.
Now they had a teapot. It had come, like everything else in that house, from their ancestors. It was not like their other china, blue, but golden—a coppery gold under an iridescent glaze that made it look like real gold at a little distance. And this teapot was not tall—and commonplace. It was low and long from handle to spout—and oval—with vertical fluting. And on each side was sculptured an imposing medallion within which was a blue rose.
Always, when they sat at meat, this was between the two dear old ladies. And the one groped for it so perilously—in a certain affright—and the hand of the other trembled so when she poured from it, that I often interposed. Alas! it was more to preserve than to help; for you have perceived, no doubt, that I coveted the teapot.
However, the old ladies were embarrassed by my help. They wanted to pour their tea for themselves, as their grandmother had done, out of this same pot. Nevertheless, they suffered my assistance with a grace which I remember even now for its gentleness.
Then, upon an idle day, searching one of the big stores in my city for a gift for them, I came upon the self-pouring teapot—not unmindful of the peril of the other one. I explained to the too polite clerk that I wanted something for my dear old ladies, and he assured me that I had discovered precisely the thing—that it had been invented with dear old ladies constantly in mind: the while he had been giving me the most deft “demonstration” I had ever beheld. Each act kept pace with some telling phrase.
It was a huge, mechanical thing, of which, if one depressed a cylinder, the air was forced out of the spout, and ahead of it flowed the tea. The name of it was “Eureka.”
I bought it and had the monograms of the dear old ladies graven unreadably on its triple-plated sides.
On the day of its presentation I noticed a certain lack of joyousness in the gift. But I explained that to myself by the appalling shining impudence of the thing in the midst of their chaste colorlessness. I labored industriously to quench its brilliance by passing my hands over it at every opportunity. But the servant—alas! there was one now—invariably brought it to the table in a renewed state of polish which maddened me. However, I taught them how to “work” the machine, and they diligently learned; so that whenever I came it was religiously used, though with a retrogression of skill at which I marvelled until I learned from the maid that it was used only when I was there, and in my absence was made immaculate, packed in its cotton wool, and put away in its gaudy box.
Unhappily the blind one lifted the thing heavily to pour from it one day. I restrained her. She flushed a little and said:
“I can’t and can’t seem to get used to it. Seems as if I must do it as grandmother did—which is ridiculous.”
“Why, God bless you!” I cried, “and so you shall. We will throw the thing into the yard. I hate it!”
They were both so stricken with horror at my passion that I did not—but I swear that that is the only reason.
To comfort me the frail one said: “We—we’re very fond of it, you know. I don’t suppose your teapot has a story?”
Do you observe that she unconsciously said your teapot?
I at once fancied the hideous history of the hideous mechanism. A hissing, grinding factory!
“No,” I answered, adopting her phrase of proprietorship, “my teapot has no story.”
But then I added, “Has yours?”
Some guilty exchange passed between the two old ladies in the occult way which needs no speech. And the mystery of the bit of clay was deepened. Most things (save the patent teapot) are not new. But I am sure that this question had never before been asked them.
“Yes,” said the frail one, with the assent of the other.
“I guess you may tell him,” said the blind one, huskily, looking down.
The frail one looked almost aghast.
“Why, sis!” she said breathlessly. And then, to me, “It is the first time she has ever let me tell it.”
“He won’t laugh,” said the blind one—and therein voiced an affection for me of which I shall always be glad.
Do you wonder that I hastened her to her story? Perhaps you are glad that I am at last come to it. Yet all I have said belongs together if it were properly told.
Now attend!
“In 1757,” the frail one began, “everything was different from what it is now—you can’t imagine how different. There was no money like our national bank-notes. The money of the United States was gold and silver coin. There was state money—‘shinplasters,’ they were called—and such things. But most of the money was the private notes of bankers, and no one ever knew whether they were good or bad. So they were always uncertain, and people who wanted money to keep would get it in gold or silver pieces. Sis and I had a little money from our mother’s estate—two thousand dollars each—and the teapot. They gave it to us in twenty-dollar gold pieces, mine of 1837, and sis’s of 1836—the dates of our birth. I think one could get them stamped at the Mint that way in those days. Anyhow, these came from the Philadelphia Mint.”
See how badly my old lady tells a story! She jumps straight from the coins to Hiliary.
“Sis and I never knew which of us Hiliary loved. He came to see us both—and, in fact, the whole family. And everybody liked him, and he liked everybody. But it seemed pretty certain that he would ask one of us to marry him. So sis and I (we were living here alone then—father having died the year before) laughingly considered that we would probably not need more than one trousseau (for Hiliary was the only beau we both had), and that we would put into the teapot all that we could spare for that purpose and not count it until Hiliary had asked one or the other of us—then she was to have it all. Whenever we had a levy or a fi’-penny-bit to spare, we would drop it into the teapot. Sis put in twice to my once, I am sure, because I had what they called a sweet tooth in my head, and brother Ben said that syrup water, which you could get at the groceries then, was the only thing that was good for it.”
The blind one stopped the story to explain something she thought was not plain to me:
“We thought we could only afford to have one wedding between us, you know.”
“Why, weren’t there plenty of suitors?” asked I.
“I guess there was only one for both of us—and his name was Hiliary,” smiled the frail one.
Then she went on:
“One night Hiliary was here, and sis and I were sitting in these two chairs, close together, as if we were afraid of him (we always sat that way when he was here). I remember that I had on my blue-flowered delaine, and sis had on her black Swiss with the green sprigs in it, just as we are in that first daguerreotype at the left-hand corner of the parlor mantel. Hiliary had just shown sis one of the new coins of 1857.
“‘Well,’ he laughed, ‘I want to marry one of you girls, but hanged if I know which one to ask. You are both mighty lovely. I believe I’ll turn Mormon.’
“But I thought he shied off toward sis there as he said it, and I never felt so lonely in my life as I did for a second or two then.
“‘Now, you are taller than sis, here, but she is plumper—and I like both. Your eyes are the same—there is no choice there. But sis’s hair is a bit redder—and I like that. It shows a spirit. And I don’t want to be the whole thing when I marry. But you are extravagant,’ he said to me, ‘and I don’t like that, because I’m poor, and a wife must help her husband to get along.’
“I thought again that he moved a bit more toward sis, there—who was hiding the coin.
“Just then sis cried: ‘Heads for me, tails for sis. Which is it? Hurry! hurry!’
“‘All right,’ said Hiliary, laughing.
“Sis turned up the coin—and it was—me!
“She jumped up and ran away laughing, then, and Hiliary sat still quite a while, as if he weren’t exactly sure. I was hanging my head ashamed and afraid. But then he laughed and put his arms around me and kissed me. He was a little bashful.
“‘I guess God put that into sis’s head,’ he said.
“‘I want to marry one of you girls, but hanged if I know which one to ask’”
“That is another thing people believed then—that God commanded things in that way, and that one would be disobeying Him not to do them.
“My, but I was happy! I didn’t know till that instant that I cared so much for him. I must have fainted for a few minutes. When I came to, sis was there again with something damp on my face. At first I couldn’t see. I heard Hiliary say, ‘But what if it had been you?’
“‘I wouldn’t have had you,’ said sis.
“‘You would have broken your word?’
“‘Certainly—rather than marry you!’
“‘Oh!’
“‘I’m looking for some one better than you—better in every way!’
“‘But you would have been going against God, maybe?’
“‘Not even then. I want some one—better!’
“But poor sis never found her better one—though I suppose there was one for her somewhere—as she deserved. For she couldn’t look for him nor see whether he was better or worse than Hiliary if he had come. She lost her sight. But I’m a little ahead of my story.
“That night I heard sis saying strange things in her sleep and sobbing. She told me the next morning that it was for me—because we had to part—”
“And you said,” the blind one interrupted, “that we should never part.”
“And you insisted that it was impossible to live together after I was married, that three was a crowd, and that you should go and keep house for brother Ben.”
“I only said I should go mad.”
“Yes, only think! What could you have meant?”
The knowledge of that would have to wait, too, until the heavens are rolled together as a scroll.
“Anyhow, sis said—it was early in the morning and we were not dressed yet—that we had better go down and see how much was in the teapot, and we did.
“There was not a cent in it!
“We never knew when it had been stolen. Perhaps long before. But it was all gone!”
She approached the next part of her story diffidently.
“Maybe you will not care for the rest. I know you don’t believe in signs.”
“But I do,” I protested.
She brightened with delight. The blind one said nothing. I think her head bent a trifle lower.
“And do you believe that God helps those who love Him when they are in distress?”
“Yes,” I said, “and some who do not love Him as well as you do. He has helped me—when I did not deserve it.”
She gazed a moment in wonder.
“I don’t mean indirectly?”
“Directly!” I said.
“But you surely do not believe in”—she halted, ashamed of the ancient word for an instant, then bravely put it at me—“miracles”?
“I have seen miracles.”
And I told her of some that I had seen.
Do you suppose that I would cast a shadow of doubt upon so precious a heritage? A believer in miracles! I thanked God after I had heard the end of her story that I need not. Don’t you believe in miracles? Don’t we all constantly expect the impossible? And if we do not believe in miracles, how can we expect that? And doesn’t the impossible often happen? Well then!
“I wouldn’t like to tell you if you would laugh.”
“I am more likely to cry,” I said.
Alas! I fear that she did not quite trust my hyperbole. She continued carefully:
“Well—then—comes the—mystery. There was no way except to pray for it. You know people—especially women—believed more in the efficacy of prayer then than they do now—they used to think of that first. And my heart was almost broken, for I had spent nearly all my money, and that was my only hope for a trousseau—and, of course, no girl can be married without one—her husband would have no respect for her. At least that is what was thought then. So every night I prayed, but no miracle happened. Then one night I slipped out of bed, where I could do nothing but think of it, and came downstairs to pray so that I would not disturb sis. As I prayed I heard coin rattle into the old teapot! I lit a candle (I had been in the dark) and ran in to look. (It was only in the closet in the next room.) I could not lift the teapot down—it was so heavy. At last, when I got it off the shelf, it slipped out of my hands, and was only saved from destruction by falling on the thick rug at the hearth. It was then that it was cracked. But the gold pieces fell and rolled about in a veritable shower. My candle went out. I let them all lie, and rushed up to wake sis. It was hard to do—she was sleeping so soundly. But when I could make her understand, she was as surprised and happy as I was.
“We lit another candle and stole down and closed the shutters and locked the doors and gathered them all up. There were exactly one hundred twenty-dollar gold pieces. Only think! And all were stamped 1836.
“‘Oh, sis,’ I said, ‘some one has stolen your money!’
“‘If any one went to the trouble to steal my money, he would keep it, not present it to you, never fear! Mine is safe at the bank.’
“And sure enough, when she went down to see, the next morning early—for she was very anxious—it was all there, quite safe, drawing its seven per cent. For sis had put hers there from the first, and used only the interest. And at that time a hundred and forty dollars a year was enough for a girl to live on very well. But I had spent my all in what Hiliary called riotous living.
“I thought, at first, we ought to make it known through the paper. But sis said that if any one had been robbed of that money, he would be the person to make it known, as he certainly would, and that to talk of it in that way was to doubt that it was a miracle.
“I have never doubted that. But I did watch the paper for a long time.”
“You have seen my poor old trousseau. But it was the finest that could be had here in those days. Sis and I did most of the sewing—or rather sis did it. That was the custom then. And she cried more than I did over it, and was more pale and shaky at the ceremony. She was my bridesmaid. But we all lived happily together afterward. I think sis was more happy than either Hiliary or me. And she was more of a wife to him than I was; more of a mother to my babies than I was. It seemed more her vocation than mine. The only unhappy thing about it—the only terrible thing in all our lives—was when we came home so happy, with a miniature of us that we had painted in Philadelphia for her, to have sis led out of the dark parlor with a black bandage over her eyes and to be told that she was—blind!
“Blind! I remember now how she put her hands all over my face and said that she could feel the happiness—and not to cry. But she didn’t want to touch Hiliary. He had come in laughing and calling for her first. For, as I told you, she had been the happy one—not I!
“When he saw her, he just held her hands as if he had turned to stone, and the tears ran down his face—the first I had ever seen him shed. And then he kissed her. He had never kissed her before, though I wouldn’t have minded it. Those were greater times for kissing than these.
“‘She must never go away from us,’ he said to me in an entire change of voice. In fact, whenever he spoke to her after that it was so. ‘And nothing must ever mar her happiness. She is ours.’
“Of course we were all crying, no one could speak another word—so that there was nothing to do but put our arms about her—and keep her—and make her happy—which we did—didn’t we, sis?”
“Yes,” whispered the blind one.
Then fell a long pause in which three minds travelled back to that beautiful old time and lived its happiness over again.
“It is very funny—what the blind can do if they like. Sis would darn the stockings, nurse the babies, teach them their lessons, tie Hiliary’s stock better than he could, or I, feel in his pocket to see whether he had always a handkerchief, do everything for him—and let me go gadding. It was the very luckiest thing for Hiliary that she never married. For it took both of us to be a wife to him—and sis was more than her share of her.
“And,” ended the frail one, “we are very thankful—for we have had everything we wanted. Only, when Hiliary died, my heart would have broken except for sis, for you know sis is brave, oh, sis is very brave—braver than I!”
“Yes,” I echoed, “sis is very brave—braver than you!”
I looked at the blind one; and I am sure that she knew what I was thinking. Her face was still turned to her plate. But high on the cheeks a flush mounted, as I looked, which might be guilt—or something else. And I fancied a tear under each eyelid which she dare not shed nor wipe away. Poor sis!
And the face of the other one was flushed, too. But I knew very certainly that meant joy. For her beautiful dark eyes looked straightly and happily into mine. Yet—there were tears there, too!
And so you see that the saying of the dear old lady is once more proven true. People cry for joy.
I reached across the table, scattering the teacups as I went, and took a hand of each.
“A beautiful story,” I said.
“It is the first time,” said she, happily, who had told it so badly. “I didn’t think I could tell a story. But somehow I was just carried along.”
“It shall never be told again,” I said, “unless you permit it.”
But I pressed the hand of the blind one, slowly, gently, until her head drooped a little further and she responded:
“Not until we are both dead.”
I have kept the faith. They are both dead.
And I will not put into printed words the thoughts of my mind. I will not spoil the story of the dear old ladies by making it orderly and conventional. For fifty years the frail one had believed in the mystery of it—had even seen God in it. A miracle! How unquestioning was faith then! How simple was she!
But I may tell you what I see, here, as I write.
First, that other one, with sudden understanding turning the coin, like an accomplished palmist! Then again, stealing down the stairs in her white night garments, after her sister, and hearing that prayer of agony—then back—for that money—all prepared—because of the earlier prayers—but halting—then, finally, to bed, like a wraith, pretending sleep, having made the supreme sacrifice of her small life.
And I can see her the next day, swearing that prim-faced old banker, in his dusty office, to eternal silence and untruth—an oath he kept with faith.
I wish I might not see her putting aside forever that trousseau—the wedding journey—the little hoard. For these meant that she had been sure of Hiliary. And, perhaps, that she and her sister were afterward to part for her wedded happiness. Was it not best as it happened?
And those sobs—I do not like to hear them—so terrible as to deprive her of her sight. The while she had to think of them in the light and she forever in the dark. And alone! Alone! But it is good to know—is it not?—that they truly lived happy ever after—that the end of all was joy? That she lived with him she loved and who loved her all the rest of his life—in the sound of his voice—in the touch of his hands—in all the gentleness of him—all the more intimately in that she was blind? For she might touch him then as she pleased—and it was his duty to protect her—sometimes he might kiss her. For you will remember that the other one did not mind. And that those were greater times for kissing than these.
And do you think that she darned even his stockings—something that touched his living body—without leaving on them a kiss or a caress? I do not. And wasn’t it splendid to live in the only happiness there was for her—or ever could be—by reason of that one great sacrifice! That she might rear his children, who was to be mother to none! That she might be almost a wife to him—who was to be wife to no one! That she was to have the very comradeship her soul desired because she was blind—not otherwise!
And, best and greatest and sweetest of all, that she for whom it all was—the sorrow—the penance—the sacrifice—would never know till she should reach that Heaven where her knowledge would only be blotted out by the greater joy it would bring—there, where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, but where the Lamb is the one bridegroom!
When the last one—the frail one—died, the teapots were sent to me in the city. (Had they, do you think, known of my covetousness all the while?) The one is wrapped in some soft, old, yellowed tissue which might have been with the trousseau. It smells faintly of dead rose-leaves. The little crack is neatly filled with fresh putty. Two of the worst chippings have been carefully built up and modelled with the same material. The other is resplendent in its original cotton wool and rests in its box.
Only a little while ago I was passing a man’s back door. On the step was a patent teapot. It was not splendid, but like a person in evil circumstances. And I am sorry to say that I was glad—as I ought not to be in the case of a person in evil circumstances. He was pressing upon an air piston and expelling kerosene to fill a lamp.
I stopped, and smiled, and said: “‘Eureka?’”
“‘Eureka!’” he echoed, smiling also.
“It seems good—for kerosene,” I said.
“It is very good—for kerosene,” he replied.
“But not for dear old ladies,” I thought, as I passed on.
And so I tell this little story—or the old ladies do—because I wish that no one may ever again buy a new teapot for old ladies. They may have an old one with a story. But in case any one unthinkingly should, I have provided a better use for it—or the man on his back doorstep has. I have always wished that I had met him—on his doorstep—earlier.