Flora
took off the paper. "See, it is the jessamine pattern," she explained.
"My mother's governess was a Belgian lady, and she taught my mother how
to make lace and my mother taught me."
"I wish I could make lace," said Sylvia. "It would be lovely to make
some for a present for my mother."
"Of course it would. I'll teach you this winter," promised the good-
natured Flora; "let me see your hands. You know a lace-maker's hands
must be as smooth as silk, because any roughness would catch the
delicate threads."
Sylvia's hands were still scratched and roughed from her fall in Miss
Rosalie's garden and her scramble over the wall, and Flora shook her
head. "You'll have to wait awhile. And you must wear gloves every time
you go out, and wash your hands in milk every night," she said very
seriously. "Now I'll show you my embroidery. Mam-m-e-e! Mam-m-e-e," and
another basket was brought and opened. This basket was also lined with
rose-colored silk, but the silk had delicate green vines running over
it. On the inside of the cover, held in place by tiny straps, were two
pairs of shining scissors with gold handles, a gold-mounted emery bag,
shaped like a strawberry, an embroidery stiletto of ivory, and a gold
thimble.
Flora lifted out the embroidery frame, and putting on her thimble took a
few exact, dainty stitches in the collar.
"What lovely work you can do, Flora!" exclaimed Sylvia. "Don't you ever
play dolls?" remembering her own cherished dolls in their small chairs
in the corner of her room at home.
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