There were letters, on whose yellowed pages the words had long
since faded, a dogeared primer, and several well worn
schoolbooks, each having on its fly-leaf: "Jane Hathaway, Her
Book"; scraps of lace, brocade ard rustling taffeta, quilt
patterns, needlebooks, and all of the eloquent treasures that a
well stored attic can yield.

As she replaced them, singing softly to herself, a folded
newspaper slipped to the floor. It was yellow and worn, like the
letters, and she unfolded it carefully. It was over thirty years
old, and around a paragraph on the last page a faint line still
lingered. It was an announcement of the marriage of Charles G.
Winfield, captain of the schooner Mary, to Miss Abigail
Weatherby.

"Abigail Weatherby," she said aloud. The name had a sweet,
old-fashioned sound. "They must have been Aunt Jane's friends."
She closed the trunk and pushed it back to its place, under the
eaves.

In a distant corner was the old cedar chest, heavily carved. She
pulled it out into the light, her cheeks glowing with quiet
happiness, and sat down on the floor beside it. It was evidently
Miss Hathaway's treasure box, put away in the attic when
spinsterhood was confirmed by the fleeting years.

On top, folded carefully in a sheet, was a gown of white brocade,
short-waisted and quaint, trimmed with pearl passementerie. The
neck was square, cut modestly low, and filled in with lace of a