A stairway he climbed came out delightfully in a garret musical with
rain and the plaintive chirping of wet birds huddled under dripping
eaves. Unlike the rooms he had left below it was swept and clean.
There were trunks in one corner, a great many, and a cedar chest.
There should be a cedar chest. It was as essential to an old garret
like this as violets in spring or sweetness in a girl's face. The
chest was open. With a low whistle of delight Kenny peered inside and
thought of the ferryman in her quaint brocade. The chest was full to
the brim of old-time gowns, glints of faded satin and yellowed lace,
buckled slippers and old brocade.

"Mr. O'Neill!"

Kenny wheeled, his face scarlet with guilt and confusion. Joan was
beside him, her startled eyes dark with reproach. Even in his
stammering moment of apology he was dismayed to find that her gown was
commonplace, old and mended.

Joan caught his glance and colored.

"It's the dress I wear to Uncle," she said hurriedly. "I--I meant you
never to see it. He doesn't know. Everything there in the cedar chest
he hates. All of it belonged to my mother. He wouldn't like me to
wear her gowns."

"In the name of Heaven," demanded Kenny, shocked, "why not? It's a
beautiful thing--like the play-acting of a dryad!"

"My mother," said the girl in a low voice, "was on the stage."