A large oval
mirror stood upon the top of the drawers, and was draped with a piece of
cheap curtain cloth, bleached to the whiteness of new fallen snow.
This mirror was a much-prized possession, for no other like it had ever
been known in the village. The floor was covered with oilcloth, and a
sheepskin rug lay upon the hearthstone, while white starched curtains
draped the window. The getting of the waxcloth had been a wonderful
event, and dozens of women had come from all over the village to stand
in gaping admiration of its beauty. This was always where Mrs. Sinclair
felt a thrill of great pride.
"Ye see," she would explain, "it's awfu' easy to wash, and a bit wipe
owre wi' soap an' watter is a' it needs."
"My, how weel aff ye are!" one woman would exclaim, "I'm telt that ye
maunna use a scrubbin' brush on't, or the pattern will rub off."
"Oh, ay," Nellie would laugh with a hint of superior wisdom in it.
"Ye'll soon waste it gin ye took a scrubber to it. An' ye maunna use
owre hot water to it either," she would add.
"Oh my!" would come in genuine surprise. "Do you tell me that. Eh, but
you're the weel-aff woman now, to hae a room like that, an' rale
waxcloth on the floor!"
"I thocht it was a fine, cheerie bit thing," Nellie would say.
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