Meanwhile, Amelia followed nervously in the track of Enoch's talk with
cousin Josiah, though her mind kept its undercurrent of foolish musing.
Like all of us, snatched up by the wheels of great emergencies, she
caught at trifles while they whirled her round. Here were
"soldier-buttons." All the other girls had collected them, though she,
having no lover in the war, had traded for her few. Here were the
gold-stones that held her changeable silk, there the little clouded
pearls from her sister's raglan. Annie had died in youth; its glamour
still enwrapped her. Poor Annie! But Rosie had seemed to bring her
back. Amelia swept litter, buttons and all, into the dustpan, and
marched to the stove to throw her booty in. Nobody marked her save
Rosie, whose playthings were endangered; but Enoch's very obtuseness to
the situation was what stayed her hand. She carried the dustpan away
into a closet, and came back, to gather up her tins. A cold rage of
nervousness beset her, so overpowering that she herself was amazed at
it.
Meantime, Josiah Pease had divested himself of his coat, and drawn the
grandfather chair into a space behind the stove.
"You a clock-mender by trade?" he asked of Enoch.
"No," said Enoch absently, "I ain't got any reg'lar trade.
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