Publisher's Synopsis
Martha Slawson sat at her sewing-machine, stitching away for dear life. About her, billowed yards upon yards of white cotton cloth, which, in its uncut length, shifted, as she worked, almost imperceptibly piling up a snowy drift in front of her, drawn from the snowy drift behind. This gradual ebb and flow was all that marked any progress in her labor, and her husband, coming in after some hours of absence and finding her, apparently, precisely where he had left her, was moved to ask what manner of garment she was making. "'Tain't a garment at all, Sam. It's a motta." "A motto?" Sam fairly gasped. Martha put on more speed, then took her feet from the treadle, her hands from the cloth-plate. "I guess you forgot what's goin' to happen, ain't you?" she returned, sitting back in her chair, looking up at him amiably. Sam squared his great shoulders. "Going to happen? Oh, you mean-you mean-Mr. and Mrs. Ronald coming home?" "Sure I do!" "Well, but I don't see--"
