In 1875, Ellen Stone spent her mornings hunched over the sewing table in her attic room, sunlight streaming through the slanted dormer window and catching in the pale blonde wisps of hair that frizzed loose from her braid. On workdays she plied her needle for Madam Van Doren, the most fashionable dressmaker in Boston, crafting intricate walking suits and velvet-trimmed bonnets for the city's matrons and debutantes. But on Sundays, Ellen stitched for herself. Sundays were for dreams. Her trunk contained three secret boxes, tied with narrow silk ribbons. The first held a soft, cream-colored chambray shirt, hand-finished with tiny French seams and glinting with mother-of-pearl buttons. The second box contained a cloth doll, its hair plaited with yellow embroidery thread, its dress a miniature of the calico gowns Ellen remembered from childhood. The smallest box was for a child, too—a stuffed toy train, felted and stitched with loving precision. Together, they made up her hope chest, as carefully built and imagined as any trousseau.