day or the night that followed, little MissEmily claimed to have committed her crime.
I went home thoughtfully. At the gate I turned and looked back. TheBenton Mausoleum was warm in the sunset, and the rose sprays lay, likeoutstretched arms, across the tiny grave.
Maggie is amazingly efficient. I am efficient myself, I trust, butI modify it with intelligence. It is not to me a vital matter, forinstance, if three dozen glasses of jelly sit on a kitchen table a dayor two after they are prepared for retirement to the fruit cellar.I rather like to see them, marshaled in their neat rows, capped withsealing wax and paper, and armed with labels. But Maggie has neithersentiment nor imagination. Jelly to her is an institution, not aninspiration. It is subject to certain rules and rites, of which not theleast is the formal interment in the fruit closet.
Therefore, after much protesting that night, I agreed to visit the fruitcellar, and select a spot for the temporary entombing of thirty-sixjelly tumblers, which would have been thirty-seven had Delia known theefficacy of a silver spoon. I can recall vividly the mental shift fromthe confession to that domestic excursion, my own impatience, Maggie'sgrim determination, and the curious denouement of that visit.