"She does not know," replied Dora, "and in any case Sarah would not think of our selling."
"Have you thought," asked Ann, "that we ought to make Margy Ellerton a wedding present?"
Dora looked at Ann indignantly. "You go too far, Ann," she replied. "You know we cannot make Margy a
wedding present unless we use her aunt's money to buy it, and that would be ridiculous."
"Go into the bedroom and open my drawer in the bureau, my top drawer, and bring out something wrapped in
tissue-paper in the left back corner," said Ann.
Dora obeyed. When she returned, she bore a bumpy parcel wrapped in tissue-paper. "What is it, Ann?" she
asked.
"Open it."
There was revealed a glass shade containing a stiff group of wax flowers -- tuberoses and lilies-of-the-valley.
"I kept that hidden away, and it wasn't sold that time when the man from New York was here asking if we had
any old shades of wax flowers or funeral wreaths to sell," said Ann, triumphantly. "I hid that. You made it,
you know. It was the first wax thing you ever made. We sold the others, and you wondered where this was."
"Yes, I remember," said Dora.
"This was out in the woodshed under a wash-tub," said Ann. "I made up my mind we would keep a few
things. The man wasn't going to pay much for this, anyway, and I did admire it. I always thought the tuberoses
were prettier than the natural ones, and they haven't any scent, either, and you know I never liked the scent of
tuberoses. Every single petal on these tuberoses is as even as a die." Ann regarded the thing lovingly.
Dora set it carefully on the table, but she looked a bit doubtful. "Don't you remember what that lady from
Boston said about wax flowers?" she inquired.
"I don't care what she said."
"But you must remember. She said wax flowers had been a most decadent feature of a decadent age of
household decoration. She said that she classed wax flowers and worsted mottoes and gilded spades and
funeral wreaths together in an appalling list. She spoke so decidedly and was so much of a lady, coming from
one of the best families of Boston, that I remember, although I did not agree with her, looking at the little
bright place on the wall-paper that was behind that last funeral wreath we sold, and feeling rather glad it was
not there to be despised."
"If she had had funeral wreaths associated with her loved ones who had departed, she could not have spoken
so," said Ann.
"Suppose Margy has such ideas," said Dora, hesitatingly. For once in her life she did not agree with Ann.
Ann looked at her firmly. "If," said she, "Margy Ellerton does not accept these wax flowers as a wedding
present, and have them set out with her other presents, I will never eat another morsel of bread purchased with
her aunt's money. You will give Sarah the bonnet; I will give the wax flowers. They are mine, you know. You
made them, but you gave them to me. It is time you and I gave, if we continue to receive. If we do not, we
shall not continue to receive."