his work was almost done. He seated himself on the packing-case which had
once held Waldo's books, and proceeded to examine the contents of another
which he had not yet looked at. It was carelessly nailed down. He
loosened one plank, and began to lift out various articles of female
attire--old-fashioned caps, aprons, dresses with long pointed bodies such
as he remembered to have seen his mother wear when he was a little child.

He shook them out carefully to see there were no moths, and then sat down
to fold them up again one by one. They had belonged to Em's mother, and
the box, as packed at her death, had stood untouched and forgotten these
long years. She must have been a tall woman, that mother of Em's, for when
he stood up to shake out a dress the neck was on a level with his, and the
skirt touched the ground. Gregory laid a nightcap out on his knee, and
began rolling up the strings; but presently his fingers moved slower and
slower, then his chin rested on his breast, and finally the imploring blue
eyes were fixed on the frill abstractedly. When Em's voice called to him
from the foot of the ladder he started, and threw the nightcap behind him.

She was only come to tell him that his cup of soup was ready; and, when he
could hear that she was gone, he picked up the nightcap again, and a great
brown sun-kapje--just such a kapje and such a dress as one of those he
remembered to have seen a sister of mercy wear. Gregory's mind was very
full of thought. He took down a fragment of an old looking-glass from
behind a beam, and put the kapje on. His beard looked somewhat grotesque
under it; he put up his hand to hide it--that was better. The blue eyes
looked out with the mild gentleness that became eyes looking out from under
a kapje. Next he took the brown dress, and, looking round furtively,
slipped it over his head. He had just got his arms in the sleeves, and was
trying to hook up the back, when an increase in the patter of the rain at
the window made him drag it off hastily. When he perceived there was no