The Green Satin Gown | Page 6

basket was already nearly full of
rags. Fastened upright beside her seat was a great knife, not unlike a
scythe-blade, with which she cut off the buttons and hooks and eyes,
running the garment along the keen edge with a quick and practised
hand. Usually she amused herself by imagining stories about the
buttons and their former owners, for she was a fanciful girl, and her
child-life, without brothers or sisters, had bred in her the habit of
solitary play and "make-believe," which clung to her now that she was
a tall girl of sixteen. But to-day she was not thinking of the Blue
Egyptians. Her thoughts were following Lena on her homeward way,
and she was hoping devoutly that her own words might have had some
effect, and that Lena might pass by the forbidden bag without lingering
to be further tempted. It was strange that this one special bundle of rags,
coming from a village at some distance, should have been kept apart
when the day's allowance was put into the dusters. But--"Mother
always says we ought to suppose there is a reason for things!" she said
to herself. And she shook her head resolutely, and tried to make a
"button-play."
She pulled from the heap before her a dark blue garment, and turned it
over, examining it carefully. It seemed to be a woman's jacket. It was of
finer material than most of the "Egyptians," and the fashion was quaint
and graceful. There were remnants of embroidery here and there, and
the heavy glass buttons were like nothing Mary had ever seen before.
"I'll keep these," she said, "for little Jessie Brown; she will be delighted
with them. That child does make so much out of so little, I'm fairly
ashamed sometimes. These will be a fortune to Jessie. I'll tell her that I
think most likely they belonged to a princess when they were new; they
were up and down the front of a dress of gold cloth trimmed with pearls,
and she looked perfectly beautiful when she had it on, and the Prince of
the Fortunate Islands fell in love with her."
Buttons were a regular perquisite of the rag-girls in the Cumquot Mill;
indeed, any trifle, coin, or seal, or medal, was considered the property
of the finder, this being an unwritten law of the rag-room.
Mary cut the buttons off, and slipped them into her pocket; then she ran

her fingers round the edge of the jacket, in case there were any hooks or
other hard substance that had escaped her notice, and that might blunt
the knives of the cutter, into which it would next go.
In a corner of the lining, her fingers met something hard. Here was
some object that had slipped down between the stuff and the lining, and
must be cut out. Mary ran the jacket along the cutting-knife, and
something rolled into her lap. Not a button this time! she held it up to
the light, and examined it curiously. It was a brooch, of glass, or clear
stones, in a tarnished silver setting. Dim and dusty, it still seemed full
of light, and glanced in the sun as Mary held it up.
"What a pretty thing!" she said. "I wonder if it is glass. I must take this
to Mr. Gordon, for I never found anything like it before. Jessie cannot
have this."
She laid it carefully aside, and went on with her sorting, working so
quickly that in a few moments the sieve was empty, and the basket
piled with good cotton rags, ready for the cutting-machine.
Taking her hat and shawl, Mary passed out, holding the brooch
carefully in her hand. There were few people in the mill, only the
machine-tenders, walking leisurely up and down beside their machines,
which whirred and droned on, regardless of dinnertime. The great
rollers went round and round, the broad white streams flowed on and
on over the screens, till the mysterious moment came when they ceased
to be wet pulp and became paper.
Mary hardly glanced at the wonderful machines; they were an old story
to her, though in every throb they were telling over and over the
marvellous works of man. The machine-tenders nodded kindly in return
to her modest greeting, and looked after her with approval, and said,
"Nice gal!" to each other; but Mary hurried on until she came to the
finishing-room. Here she hoped to find a friend whom she could
consult about her discovery; and, sure enough, old James Gregory was
sitting on his accustomed stool, tying bundles of paper with the
perfection that no one else could equal. His back was turned to the door,
and he was crooning a fragment of an old paper-mill song, which might

have been composed by the