her heart's content.

The sunlight streamed through the east window and searched the
farthest corners of the room. The floor was bare and worn, but
carefully swept, and the things that were stored there were
huddled together far back under the eaves, as if to make room for
others.

It was not idle curiosity, but delicate sentiment, that made Ruth
eager to open the trunks and dresser drawers, and to turn over
the contents of the boxes that were piled together and covered
with dust. The interest of the lower part of the house paled in
comparison with the first real attic she had ever been in.

After all, why not? Miss Hathaway was her aunt,--her mother's
only sister,--and the house was in her care. There was no earthly
reason why she should not amuse herself in her own way. Ruth's
instincts were against it, but Reason triumphed.

The bunches of dried herbs, hanging from the rafters and swaying
back and forth in ghostly fashion, gave out a wholesome
fragrance, and when she opened trunks whose lids creaked on their
rusty hinges, dried rosemary, lavender, and sweet clover filled
the room with that long-stored sweetness which is the gracious
handmaiden of Memory.

Miss Hathaway was a thrifty soul, but she never stored discarded
clothing that might be of use to any one, and so Ruth found no
moth-eaten garments of bygone pattern, but only things which
seemed to be kept for the sake of their tender associations.