They were in the front bedroom. The big brass bedstead was placed with its head against the wall. The end of the bed made a bright railing between Margaret and her mother and sister. She was sitting kicking her heels on the far side of the bed from where they stood, and watching herself in the long mirrored door of the wardrobe. The bed was covered from top to bottom with a patchwork quilt so large that it hung almost down to the floor on both sides. The quilt was very old, and it was precious to Mrs. Bagot, and she usually kept it folded away out of sight, but she had put it out today in honor of the Bishop’s visit, and to satisfy the children, who had been pestering her to let them see it all spread out on a bed where they could really get a good look at the different patterns and colors. The Bishop would never see the quilt, of course, but it made the whole house better and richer just by being on the bed for the day. It was forbidden to sit on the quilt, and Margaret sat on it very lightly, hoping her mother wouldn’t notice her. In the mirror she could see her own hands wandering around, touching the hard lines where the separate pieces, scraps of ancient dresses, were joined together in small, precise octagonals. This was disobedience, and she knew she would have to tell about it in confession. She had only lately made her first confession, and she thought her sins were like plums — bad plums that she plucked out of the air, which had formerly been clear and empty. Formerly, before she reached seven, the age of reason. And then, at the end of the week, she gave all the bad plums to the priest in the confession box. Always, at the last minute before she got into the box, she felt frightened, wondering what he might say to her, but he never said anything and always gave her a small penance. Now she sat on the quilt and looked at herself, sitting in sin. She watched herself thinking about confession and sin, and she felt she was in control of the situation and well able to manage for herself.