delicate, frosty pattern--Point d'Alencon. Underneath the gown
lay piles of lingerie, all of the finest linen, daintily made by
hand. Some of it was trimmed with real lace, some with crocheted
edging, and the rest with hemstitched ruffles and
feather-stitching.

There was another gown, much worn, of soft blue cashmere, some
sea-shells, a necklace of uncut turquoises, the colour changed to
green, a prayer-book, a little hymnal, and a bundle of letters,
tied with a faded blue ribbon, which she did not touch. There was
but one picture--an ambrotype, in an ornate case, of a handsome
young man, with that dashing, dare-devil look in his eyes which
has ever been attractive to women.

Ruth smiled as she put the treasures away, thinking that, had
Fate thrown the dice another way, the young man might have been
her esteemed and respected uncle. Then, all at once, it came to
her that she had unthinkingly stumbled upon her aunt's romance.

She was not a woman to pry into others' secrets, and felt guilty
as she fled from the attic, taking the lamp with her. Afterward,
as she sat on the narrow piazza, basking in the warm Spring
sunshine, she pieced out the love affair of Jane Hathaway's early
girlhood after her own fashion.

She could see it all plainly. Aunt Jane had expected to be
married to the dashing young man and had had her trousseau in
readiness, when something happened. The folded paper would
indicate that he was Charles Winfield, who had married some one
else, but whether Aunt Jane had broken her engagement, or the