One Golden Needle

“For you, with all the thank you's from the committee.” Lorrie held out the tissue-wrapped package to Miss Ashemeade. “And here is the scrapbook too. The girls were all very careful. We know it is a precious thing. You were kind to talk to Aunt Margaret about our borrowing it.”

Miss Ashemeade smiled as she took the package. “If I had not known you would cherish it, Lorrie, I would not have lent it to you. Nothing, child, is too precious to give or lend to one who has need of it, always remember that. And now, let us see what this is.”

She drew off the ribbon, put aside the tissue paper, and looked at the offering from the committee.

“It was the prettiest one,” Lorrie said. “We all worked on it.”

Miss Ashemeade held the valentine up so that the sunlight fell across the lacy paper and the center bouquet of flowers, touched the golden letters Lizabeth had so skillfully cut from the gilt paper in the shape of a twisted rope.

“To Our Valentine,” Miss Ashemeade read. “You have done well, all of you, Lorrie. I shall give you a note for the committee. And so these are what you are going to offer for sale at your fair?”

“We made fifty,” Lorrie answered with pride. “Oh, they're not all as large as this one. But we tried to copy the ones in the book we liked best. And Mrs. Raymond said they were ‘works of art,’” Lorrie quoted.

Miss Ashemeade set the valentine carefully up on top of her embroidery table. Lorrie watched her and then paid more attention to the room. It was different. Now, with a sharp stab of fear, she knew why. The long table was bare, there were no longer any piles of materials and ribbons, any piece of work waiting the repairing needle.

The embroidery frame was empty and put back against the wall. Though there was a fire on the hearth this late Fri day afternoon and Sabina lay curled before it, and there were candles lighted, for the first time Lorrie did not feel the old safe welcome. She looked to Miss Ashemeade troubled.

“You aren't cleaning now—” She wanted that to be a question, but it sounded more a statement of a fact she did not want to believe.

“No, Lorrie, the cleaning and the clearing are almost done.”

“The house! Miss Ashemeade, that meeting—Couldn't the lawyer do anything to help you? They are not going to tear down Octagon House! They can't!”

She had been so busy with the committee, with end of the term lessons and tests—she had been too busy to care! Maybe—maybe she could have done something—There had been her idea of trying to get people interested in saving the house. If she had only paid attention, tried—The chill within Lorrie spread. She shivered as she looked about the room again and noticed all the familiar things now gone from it. What—what would happen now?

“Lorrie.” Miss Ashemeade's quiet voice drew her attention from the room to its mistress. “In this much you are right, the time of Octagon House is fast drawing to a close. But that is the natural course of life, dear child. Nothing re mains unchanged, unless it withdraws from life itself. By man's measurement Octagon House has had a long life, well over a hundred years. It has seen many changes around it, and now it shall be changed in turn.”

“It will be torn down! Gone—not just changed. It's—it's all wrong!” Lorrie had jumped to her feet and that denial came out of her in a shrill voice.

Miss Ashemeade no longer smiled. She gazed at Lorrie very soberly and intently.

“Lorrie, one cannot say no to life and remain the same. When you first came here, you were trying to say no to change. You thought you could not find anything good in a new way of life, was that not true?”

She paused, and Lorrie tried to remember back to the days before Octagon House opened its doors for her.

“Then the house had something to offer you. It is, and it has always been, a refuge, Lorrie. Do you understand what I mean?”

“A safe place,” Lorrie answered.

“A safe place. And some who found their way here, child, were so beaten and hurt by life that this refuge became a home. In this house there is a choice one may make—to re-enter life again, or to stay. You thought you were unhappy and alone. But were you ever as unhappy and frightened and alone as Phebe and Phineas, Chole and Nackie, and Charles Dupree?”

Lorrie did not know quite what Miss Ashemeade was trying to tell her. “They came—Lotta brought them—because they were being hunted—people after them—”

“They were hunted, yes. Two orphan children, and two escaped slaves, and a prisoner of war. The house chose to shelter them, and in turn they chose to remain in the house. You thought you were being hunted, too, but what were you running from, Lorrie?”

“Jimmy Purvis—the boys—” Lorrie began slowly, trying to think why. Somehow it all seemed so silly now. “And I guess everything else—missing Grandmother and Hamp-stead, and being lonely. I was silly and stupid"—she felt her face grow hot—"just as they said I was.”

“These things seemed big to you then, Lorrie. But how do you find them now?”

“Small,” Lorrie admitted.

“Because you have learned that time can change some things?”

Suddenly Lorrie asked a question of her own. “Miss Ashemeade—the doll house—this house—are they the same?” She herself did not know quite what she meant, yet it was important.

Miss Ashemeade shook her head. “That I cannot tell you. It's not that I will not, but I truly cannot. But know this much: if you had not had the power within you that opened the doors, you would not have seen what you did. The house chooses, it always does. And now that you have seen some things, there is reason to believe that time may open more doors for you, if you wish.”

“Miss Ashemeade, if Octagon House must go, where will you and Hallie live?”

Once more Miss Ashemeade smiled. “Dear child, that is a worry no one need have. And now I believe you have one last row on your sampler to finish. Shall we sew for a while?”

She put aside the valentine and opened the top of her table. Lorrie picked up her own workbox and got out the strip of linen with its rows and rows of stitches. A little surprised, she surveyed the record of her learning. Why, it was longer than she had thought, beginning with simple outline stitching and French knots, and going on to featherstitching, chain stitching, into more complicated work.

Miss Ashemeade had taken a small package out of one of the table compartments and was unfolding a strip of cloth.

“Will you set the music box, Lorrie?” she asked.

As the tinkling notes sounded through the quiet of the room, Lorrie was not surprised when Miss Ashemeade began to sing in that unknown other language. But she was not stitching tapestry, or mending lace, or making a collar—

Collar, thought Lorrie in sudden surprise. Miss Ashemeade had made that velvet collar for Sabina for Christmas. But Sabina had not worn it then, nor had Lorrie seen it again since the day it had been fashioned.

What was Miss Ashemeade making now? Lorrie leaned forward a little to see, for it was small. Yes, that was the golden needle flashing, though there was no sun to light it today. But—she was making a doll dress!

And as she sewed on, she glanced now and then to a small picture that had been wrapped up with the material. By leaning forward just a little farther Lorrie could see the picture clearly, and with a start of surprise recognized the lady in it.

That was Lotta as she had seen her last with Charles. Only instead of a riding habit she wore a lovely dress of lace that spread out in rows of ruffles from her small waist. And Miss Ashemeade was copying that dress, sewing on such tiny ruffles that Lorrie would not have believed anyone could make such invisibly small stitches unless she had watched them in progress. Miss Ashemeade sang. Again Lorrie found her own needle moving in time to that singing, with ease and pleasure in what she was doing.

When her last row of sampler stitches was completed, she folded the length of material and placed it neatly in the bottom of her box, beneath the tray that held the needlecase, reels, and spools. She sat quietly, content to watch the flashing of the golden needle in and out, and then she found her self repeating the words of the song along with Miss Ashemeade, not knowing what they meant, except that they were a very necessary part of what Miss Ashemeade was now doing.

How long they sat there Lorrie did not know or care. For her the warmth and the safe feeling had returned to the room. But at last Miss Ashemeade set a final stitch and cut her thread. The dress was finished. She smoothed it with her fingers and then further unrolled the large square of material. Within lay a second dress of soft rose-pink and with it a ruffled apron.

“Oh!” Lorrie cried in distress. “You broke your needle— the gold needle!”

Miss Ashemeade no longer sang. And as she put down the needle it no longer flashed. It was broken in two, and some how it no longer seemed gold, but lay in dull pieces, as if the stitching it had just done had drawn out of it all the life it had once held.

“Its work was done, my dear.” Miss Ashemeade did not sound sorry. “It was very old and its usefulness was finished.”

Lorrie eyed the doll dresses. She wanted to ask why Miss Ashemeade had made them, but somehow she could not. It was as if such a question would have been rude.

Miss Ashemeade put them away, rolled up in the material. She shut down the lid of the sewing table.

“Now, Lorrie, if you will fetch pen and paper. I do want to thank the committee for their charming gift.”

As Miss Ashemeade wrote, Lorrie moved to the fireplace. Sabina sat up and began to wash. It was so quiet in the room that the faint scratching of pen on paper could be heard, even the lick-lick of Sabina's rough pink tongue against her black fur. Suddenly Lorrie did not like that quiet. Hallie—where was Hallie? She listened for any noise from the kitchen. But perhaps the walls of the old house were too thick, for if Hal-lie were busy, no sound could be heard here.

Miss Ashemeade sealed her envelope with a small wafer, and then brought out from some inner pocket of her wide skirt another envelope.

“Lorrie, I am going to ask you to do something that is very important to me. And I shall also ask you not to question it. I believe I can trust you.”

“Yes, Miss Ashemeade.”

“As you leave here tonight, you will find the key in the lock of the back door. You will lock the door, then you will put the key into this envelope, seal the envelope, and mail it at the corner post box.”

“Miss Ashemeade!” Lorrie dared to catch and hold the hand offering her the envelope. “Please, Miss Ashemeade, what are you going to do?”

“I said no questions, Lorrie. And do not be afraid, because there is nothing to fear, that I promise you. I told you once that belief was needful. Believe me now.”

Lorrie took the envelope. “I do.”

“And now, Lorrie, it grows late.”

But Lorrie did not turn at once to the door. “Please—I will see you again?”

Miss Ashemeade smiled. Sabina came running lightly across the room and jumped into her lap.

“I believe you will, Lorrie. Remember, belief is very important—belief and the need for seeing with the heart as well as with the eyes. Always remember that. And now, goodbye for a little while, Lorrie.”

“Goodbye.” Lorrie could linger no longer after that dismissal, but somehow she was almost afraid to go, afraid that if she went out of this room she would never see it again. She turned as she reached the door to look back for the last time.

Sabina lay at ease across her mistress’ lap and Miss Ashemeade was stroking her. The shadows were gathering darker and darker in the far corners of the room, beginning to creep out toward its center.

“Please, may I say goodbye to Hallie too?” Lorrie asked.

“Of course, my dear, if you can find her.”

Lorrie closed the door and crossed the hall to the kitchen. The door was shut and did not open to her pull. What had Miss Ashemeade once said, on her first exploration of the house—go anywhere the doors will open. This one would not.

Lorrie rapped on it, but there was no answer. But she must say goodbye to Hallie! Somehow, tonight especially, that was important. With her knuckles still resting against the stubbornly closed panels, Lorrie called:

“Goodbye, Hallie, goodbye!”

Still that did not seem enough. Alarmed, why she was not quite sure, Lorrie turned to the door through which she had come only moments earlier. She would ask Miss Ashemeade. But that door could not now be opened either. She lifted her hand though she did not knock. After her last goodbye, Lorrie somehow felt she must not disturb the mistress of Octagon House again.

She put on her wraps and boots. The key was in the lock, just as Miss Ashemeade had said it would be. She let herself out, then turned the key. For a long moment she stood on the top step, holding it in her hand. She had locked Miss Ashemeade and Hallie inside—why? The key was big and old and heavy. But perhaps they had another key. Maybe Hallie was tired and had gone to rest, and Miss Ashemeade wanted to spare her having to come and lock up.

But then why put the key in an envelope and mail it? Lorrie turned the envelope over in her hand. There were papers inside to make it fat. She dropped the key in quickly and licked the flap shut. The name and address on it—it was meant to go to a Mr. Ernest Thruston—the lawyer!

Belief was important, Miss Ashemeade had said—and don't ask questions. But questions buzzed in Lorrie's head as she walked to the mailbox and dropped in the heavy letter.

Lorrie continued to think about that key and the big envelope while she got supper for Aunt Margaret, who would be late tonight. She kept remembering things that made her more and more uneasy, just why she was not sure. Miss Ashemeade's precious golden needle, dull and broken. And the locked door when she left—Miss Ashemeade certainly could not have risen and walked across the room all by her self to lock the door of the red room in the short time Lorrie had been at the kitchen door! Then who had? Hallie, coming around the other way through the unused parlor?

But always her thoughts came back to the key and why Miss Ashemeade had wanted her to mail it to Mr. Thruston.

Where would Miss Ashemeade, Hallie, and Sabina go? Lorrie could not think of them living anywhere else than in Octagon House—they did not belong to the world outside its doors. And what would happen to all the treasures? Would Miss Ashemeade be able to take them with her?

Lorrie glanced about the very small kitchen of the apartment. Imagine Hallie trying to work here! Her beloved stove could not fit in. Suddenly Lorrie wanted to race back through the dusk, knock on the back door—that locked back door—and find Hallie, and the red room, and Miss Ashemeade just the same as they had been through all the months she had known them. Months, wondered Lorrie. Yes, part of October, all of November, and December, and January, and one week in February—But it seemed to her now that she had been a visitor to Octagon House for far longer than that.

What would become of Bevis and the doll house? Or—for the first time Lorrie's thoughts winged in another direction—was there now a Bevis and a doll house? Had there ever been at all?

But Miss Ashemeade knew about Phebe and Phineas, Chole and Nackie, and Charles Dupree. She had said this afternoon that they had chosen to remain in its safety. Did that mean they lived there forever and ever? Lorrie looked at the clock and at the coffeepot put on to perk. Believe, Miss Ashemeade had said.

Lorrie drew a deep breath and stood still. She was staring at the wall but not seeing the brightly polished copper molds hung there to brighten up the dark corner beyond the dinette. There was a new warm feeling inside her. Now—now she believed that Miss Ashemeade, and Hallie, and Sabina were safe too. No matter what would happen to Octagon House, they would be safe—forever!

“Lorrie?” She had not heard Aunt Margaret's key in the door. Now she turned, startled.

Aunt Margaret still had on her coat and hat. She looked unhappy. “Lorrie, I am so sorry—”

“Sorry for what?” Lorrie was jolted out of her own thoughts.

“About Octagon House.” Aunt Margaret had the evening paper in one hand. “The thruway—” She hesitated.

“I know. Miss Ashemeade told me.”

“Those poor old ladies. Something must be done for them. Wherever will they go? Lorrie, I think I had better go up there this evening and see if there is any way I may help.”

“Miss Ashemeade said they would be safe.”

“Safe? Oh, yes, you were there this afternoon. But maybe she did not really understand, Lorrie. The Commissioners announced today that the appeal failed. All those who ob jected will have to move. Miss Ashemeade is very old, Chick. And sometimes old people do not understand how things can be taken this way by the city.”

“She does know, Aunt Margaret. She told me there was no place for Octagon House now.”

Aunt Margaret slipped out of her coat. “But there should be!” she said almost fiercely. “We must see what can be done! At least for those poor old ladies.”

“Aunt Margaret,” Lorrie asked slowly, “do you really think they are poor old ladies?”

Aunt Margaret looked at Lorrie in surprise. Then her expression became thoughtful.

“No, you are right, Lorrie. Miss Ashemeade may be old, but I do not believe that she would allow anyone to make decisions for her. And she told you she has plans?”

“Yes and—” Lorrie told her about the key and the letter.

“Lock the back door behind you and mail the key—and you did it? But, Lorrie, leaving the two of them locked in and—Why, whyever would they want that? Lorrie, you stay right here—understand?”

Aunt Margaret pulled on her coat, ran out into the hall, and was gone, not quite shutting the door behind her. For a moment Lorrie's amazement was part fear. And then the certainty of moments earlier returned to reassure her, and she knew there was no need to worry about Miss Ashemeade and the other inhabitants of Octagon House. She went on with supper preparations, listening for Aunt Margaret's return.

And return she did before not many minutes had passed. There was an odd expression on her face as she came once more into the kitchen.

“I don't know why,” she said. “I got as far as the gate and then, why, then, Lorrie, I just knew it was all right with them.”

Lorrie noded. “I know it too.”

But Aunt Margaret still had that strange look on her face, as if right before her eyes something had happened that she could not believe, even though she saw it happen. Then she shook her head.

The letter came the following Friday. But as that was the day of the fair, they did not open it until late. Aunt Margaret had come to the P.T.A. supper, and she and Lorrie did not get back home until after nine. The envelope was waiting in their mailbox, a long white one with a business address in the upper corner and it was addressed to them both: Miss Margaret Gerson, Miss Lorrie Mallard.

Aunt Margaret, very puzzled, read it aloud. They were to go to Octagon House on Saturday morning at eleven, and it was signed Ernest Thruston.

“Miss Ashemeade's lawyer,” Lorrie explained.

“But why?” Aunt Margaret read it through a second time, this time to herself. “I can't understand—Well, it sets one's imagination to working, doesn't it? Luckily I am free tomorrow.”

It was snowing a little when they opened the front gate of Octagon House the next day. Again the proud deer had a small ridge of white down his back as he stared over their heads. Lorrie looked at him a little sadly and hoped he would find another home when they took away his lawn and garden.

There were tracks in the snow on the walk, as if someone had gone around the house not too long before, and they followed those to the same back door they had always used. Aunt Margaret rapped and the door was opened, not by a smiling Hallie, but by a man who said at once and a little sharply:

“Miss Gerson?”

“Yes, and Lorrie.”

He brought them into the red room. But Lorrie shivered. There was no fire on the hearth. A lamp and some candles had been lighted, but all the warmth and cheer had gone out of the room. The tall back chair was empty. Aunt Margaret asked the question that Lorrie could not voice.

“Miss Ashemeade?”

“She has gone. Of course, she has always been a will unto herself. The key and her instructions were mailed to me. Brrr—these old houses without central heating—nothing but damp and cold! If you don't mind.” He glanced about him as if he did not care for the room or the house, and would like to be away as soon as possible. “Miss Ashemeade has made certain dispositions of her property that I am empowered to carry out. Your niece, Lorrie Mallard, is to have the contents of the toy room. If you will please come with me.”

“The toy room?” echoed Aunt Margaret. “But—”

It was a strange house, Lorrie thought as they went from shrouded parlor to bedroom, where now covers were also draped all over the furniture. Then Mr. Thruston pushed open the last door and they were in the room with the painted floor.

There were Bevis and the house, just as they had always been.

“Why, Lorrie! A doll house, and a rocking horse—” Aunt Margaret stared at those. But there was more in the room now, Lorrie noted. The box from which Miss Ashemeade had unpacked the wonderful Christmas ornaments stood to one side and on it rested both the workbox she had used and the scrapbook of valentines.

Aunt Margaret walked slowly around the house, peering into its windows.

“This—this is a museum piece, Mr. Thruston. And—and we do not have room for it in the apartment.”

“I believe Miss Ashemeade foresaw that problem, Miss Gerson.” Mr. Thruston held a piece of paper. “It has been arranged that most of the furnishings of this house, having historical value, be presented to the Ashton Historical Society. The doll house and the horse may be placed on loan with them also, a loan that may be terminated upon demand at any time by your niece. They will have safekeeping, and they will doubtless be enjoyed by the public—I believe the school classes make yearly visits to the Society. But when ever she wishes, she may reclaim them. And now, I dislike hurrying you, Miss Gerson, but there are certain articles left to your care. If you will just come and see—”

“That wonderful house—Yes, I'll come,” answered Aunt Margaret.

Lorrie waited until they had left and then she stepped around to the side of the house where the dining room was— the room Miss Ashemeade had made so much her own. In spite of the gloom in the room, she had caught a glimpse, a glinting sparkle against the base. Now she knelt on the floor to see it better. Yes, she was right! There was a gold chain, and strung on it seven small keys, while an eighth stood in the keyhole of the drawer.

She turned that key and drew open the drawer. It was one of the wider ones.

“Lotta.” She did not need to touch the beautiful lace dress she had seen Miss Ashemeade make, nor the doll who wore it. “Hallie.” No longer bent and old, but young as Miss Lotta—wearing the rosy dress. “Sabina.” Small, quiet, with her silver-belled collar. “Hello.” Lorrie bent closer to whisper. “Now—all of you—wait for me.”

Softly she shut the drawer and turned the key in its lock. Why had she said that? Wait for her—how?—where? Until someday when she had a house big enough to hold the doll house? When again there might be a chance to visit it, meet again those who would live there for always and always?

One, two, three, four drawers with their occupants. What lay in the other four?

She tried a key in the next and opened it—nothing. Then a second and third—they were empty. But when she pulled out the fourth—Lorrie looked closer. It was the wooden needle box. She picked it up and opened it. One golden needle was left, thrust firmly into the velvet. Lorrie did not touch it, but put the box back and locked the drawer.

Then she tried them all. They were safely locked. The house, yes, let them put the house in the museum where any one who wished might look in it. But the people of the house—let them be as safe as they had chosen to be.

Lorrie dropped the chain with its keys into her workbox, and took that up with the scrapbook. She could get the ornament box later. Holding the box and the book, she went to Bevis and stroked his arching neck. Thump, thump, he rocked back and forth, but he did not change. Lorrie was not disappointed. That was as it should be—for now.

She went to the door and then looked back at the waiting house, at Bevis. Wait they would, house and horse, as long or as short—as time.

“Goodbye,” said Lorrie very softly, “for a while. Good bye—”

The floor creaked. Had or had not Bevis rocked to nod her an approving answer?