“If I should sleep under that bed-quilt,” said Sammy Ray (Sammy and Roy had been invited to attend this last meeting of the Society), “what do you suppose I should dream about?”

No one could imagine.

“A white horse and a yellow dog,” the boy said, “’cause I liked those stories best.”

“Yes,” said Mollie; “and of course Nellie Dimock would dream about cats, wouldn’t you, Nell? and Roy Tyler about moths and butterflies, and Florence Austin about birds, and I—­well, I should dream of all the beasts and the birds Aunt Ruth has told us about, all jumbled up together.”

“I shall always remember one thing,” Nellie Dimock said, “when I think about our quilt.”

“What is that, Nellie?”

“Not to step on an ant-hill if I can possibly help it, because it blocks up the street, and the little people have to work so hard to cart away the dirt.”

“I ain’t half so afraid of worms as I used to be,” Eliza Ann Jones announced, “since I’ve found out what funny things they can do; and next summer I’m going to make some butterflies out of fennel-worms,”

“Roy says,” Sammy began, and stopped; for Roy was making forcible objections to the disclosure.

“Well, what does Roy say?” Miss Ruth asked, knowing nothing of the kicks administered under the table.

“He won’t let me tell,” said Sammy.

“He’s always telling what I say,” said Roy.  “Why don’t he speak for himself?”

“Well, I never!” said Sammy.  “I thought you was too bashful to speak, and so I’d do it for you.”

“What was it, Roy?”

“Why, I said, when I owned a horse, if he should happen to shy, you know, I’d cure him of it just as that minister cured Peter.”

Here there was a pushing back of chairs and a stir and commotion, for the last stitch was set to the quilting.  Then the binding was put on, and the quilt was finished; but the September afternoon was finished too, and Lovina Tibbs lighted the lamps in the dining-room before she rang the bell for tea.

Lovina had exerted herself in her special department to make this last meeting of the Society a festive occasion.  She gave to the visitors what she called “a company supper”—­biscuits deliciously sweet and light, cold chicken, plum-preserves, sponge-cake, and for a central dish a platter containing little frosted cakes, with the letters “P.Q.S.” traced on each in red sugar-sand.

When the feast was over, one last-admiring look given to “our quilt” and the girls and boys had all gone home, Susie and Mollie sat with their mother in Miss Ruth’s room.

“Auntie,” said Susie, who for some moments had been gazing thoughtfully in the fire, “I have been thinking how nice it would be if, when our quilt goes to the home missionary, all the interesting stories you have told us while we were sewing on it could go too.  Then the children in the family would think so much more of it—­don’t you see?  I wish there was some way for a great many more boys and girls to hear those stories.”