When I returned in September I found that a neat little parcel had been left at the house sometime before, addressed to me in Mrs. Willkit's neat little handwriting. It contained an elaborately made collar-case, beautifully featherstitched and redolent of sachet powder. No written declaration of regard accompanied it, but I recognized it as Mrs. Willkit's parting gift and benediction. So she had really gone! I was selfishly regretful, and mentally composed a letter of thanks to her that contained the regret but not the selfishness. But as I had no address, of course the thanks must wait.
I sought me out another seamstress, one not above the work this time, but at double the price, and started all over again.
As time wore on with no word from Mrs. Willkit, a certain uneasiness added itself to my regret. Had circumstances not turned out so favorably as expected? Was she ill? I thought of trying to get some clue through the firm for whom "the girls" worked, but hesitated. They might be there still, of course, but I did not want to seem intrusive. The matter was really in Mrs. Willkit's own hands. She had always kept her connection with me
