Margaret Ogilvy

christened in it also, such robes being then a rare possession, and the lending ofours among my mother's glories. It was carried carefully from house to house, as ifit were itself a child; my mother made much of it, smoothed it out, petted it, smiledto it before putting it into the arms of those to whom it was being lent; she was inour pew to see it borne magnificently (something inside it now) down the aisle tothe pulpit-side, when a stir of expectancy went through the church and we kickedeach other's feet beneath the book-board but were reverent in the face; andhowever the child might behave, laughing brazenly or skirling to its mother'sshame, and whatever the father as he held it up might do, look doited probably andbow at the wrong time, the christening robe of long experience helped themthrough. And when it was brought back to her she took it in her arms as softly as ifit might be asleep, and unconsciously pressed it to her breast: there was neveranything in the house that spoke to her quite so eloquently as that little white robe;it was the one of her children that always remained a baby. And she had not made itherself, which was the most wonderful thing about it to me, for she seemed to havemade all other things. All the clothes in the house were of her making, and youdon't know her in the least if you think they were out of the fashion; she turnedthem and made them new again, she beat them and made them new again, andthen she coaxed them into being new again just for the last time, she let them outand took them in and put on new braid, and added a piece up the back, and thusthey passed from one member of the family to another until they reached theyoungest, and even when we were done with them they reappeared as somethingelse. In the fashion! I must come back to this. Never was a woman with such an eyefor it. She had no fashion-plates; she did not need them. The minister's wife (acloak), the banker's daughters (the new sleeve)-they had but to pass our windowonce, and the scalp, so to speak, was in my mother's hands. Observe her rushing, scissors in hand, thread in mouth, to the drawers where her daughters' Sabbathclothes were kept. Or go to church next Sunday, and watch a certain family filing in, the boy lifting his legs high to show off his new boots, but all the others demure, especially the timid, unobservant-looking little woman in the rear of them. If youwere the minister's wife that day or the banker's daughters you would have got ashock. But she bought the christening robe, and when I used to ask why, she wouldbeam and look conscious, and say she wanted to be extravagant once. And she toldme, still smiling, that the more a woman was given to stitching and making thingsfor herself, the greater was her passionate desire now and again to rush to theshops and 'be foolish.' The christening robe with its pathetic frills is over half acentury old now, and has begun to droop a little, like a daisy whose time is past; butit is as fondly kept together as ever: I saw it in use again only the other d