Mrs. Ochiltree's present was an old and yellow ivory rattle, with a
handle which the child could bite while teething, and a knob screwed on
at the end to prevent the handle from slipping through the baby's hand.

"I saw that in your cedar chest, Aunt Polly," said Clara, "when I was a
little girl, and you used to pull the chest out from under your bed to
get me a dime."

"You kept the rattle in the right-hand corner of the chest," said Tom,
"in the box with the red silk purse, from which you took the gold piece
you gave me every Christmas."

A smile shone on Mrs. Ochiltree's severe features at this appreciation,
like a ray of sunlight on a snowbank.

"Aunt Polly's chest is like the widow's cruse," said Mrs. Carteret,
"which was never empty."

"Or Fortunatus's purse, which was always full," added old Mr. Delamere,
who read the Latin poets, and whose allusions were apt to be classical
rather than scriptural.

"It will last me while I live," said Mrs. Ochiltree, adding cautiously,
"but there'll not be a great deal left. It won't take much to support
an old woman for twenty years."

Mr. Delamere's man Sandy had been waiting upon the table with the
decorum of a trained butler, and a gravity all his own. He had changed
his suit of plain gray for a long blue coat with brass buttons, which
dated back to the fashion of a former generation, with which he wore a